!il||! 


lillll 


! 

University  of  California  •  Berkeley 

In  Memory  of 

PROFESSOR  WILLIAM  MJiM^ILL 

and 

MRS.    IMOGENE  MERRILL 

nzo 


University  of  California  •  Berkeley 

In  Memory  of 

PROFESSOR  WILLIAM  MERRILL 

and 

MRS.  IMOGENE  MERRILL 


SISTER  TERESA 


WORKS  OF  GEORGE  MOORE 

NEW  AND    UNIFORM   EDITION 

Large  12mo,  Green  Cloth, 

SPRING  DAYS 

CONFESSIONS  OF  A  YOUNG 
MAN 

A  MUMMER'S  WIFE 

IMPRESSIONS  AND  OPINIONS 

MUSLIN 

CELIBATES 

ESTHER  WATERS 

SISTER  TERESA 

LEWIS  SEYMOUR  AND  SOME 
WOMEN 

Others  in  Preparation 

BRENTANO'S         ::        NEW     YORK 


SISTER  TERESA 


BY 


GEORGE  MOORE 


NEW  YORK 

BRENTANO'S 

1920 


Copyright,  1901 
By  J.  B.  Lippincott  Company 

Copyright,  191S 
By  Brentano's 


SCHLUETER   PRINTING   CO.,   NEW   YORK 


Sister  Teresa 


She  was  conscious  of  her  indolence :  within  and 
without  her  there  was  a  strange,  lifeless  calm,  a 
strange  inactivity  in  the  air  and  in  her  mind.  In 
the  landscape  and  in  her  there  seemed  no  before 
and  no  hereafter.  But  a  glance  inwards  revealed 
to  her  the  ripple  of  some  hidden  anticipation  moving 
under  the  sullen  surface.  The  idea  of  returning 
to  London  stirred  a  little  dread  in  her,  yet  she  felt 
that  for  the  moment  she  had  seen  enough  of  the 
convent.  For  the  moment  she  could  assimilate  no 
more  of  it.  The  rhythm  of  the  carriage  penetrated 
her  indolent  body.  The  thud  of  the  chestnut's  hoofs 
in  the  empty  road  stirred  a  quiet  wonder  in  her, 
and  she  looked  into  the  sunset  as  she  might  into  a 
veil. 

The  mist  had  gathered  in  the  suburban  streets, 
and  over  the  scraps  of  waste  ground,  changing  them 
to  blue ;  and  looking  into  this  dim  colour  and  dimly- 
suggested  form,  she  seemed  to  become  aware  of  the 
presence  of  a  phantom  life  moving  on  the  hither 
side  of  her  life,  dependent  upon  it,  and  yet  seem- 
ingly  not   concerned  by  its   affairs,   occupied  by 


8  SISTEK    TERESA 

interests  and  desires  exclusively  its  own.  Her  per- 
ceptions gathered  in  intensity,  and  she  waited,  trem- 
ulous and  expectant,  for  the  moment  seemed  to  have 
come  for  the  invisible  to  become  visible.  But  in 
spite  of  her  efforts  to  keep  her  attention  fixed,  to 
exclude  the  natural,  her  attention  wandered  or  it 
lapsed,  or  the  natural  slipt  in  between,  intercepting 
her  vision,  and  the  phantom  folk  lost  their  super- 
natural appearance  and  took  on  the  likeness  of  the 
nuns.  She  saw  the  nuns  in  their  convent  garden, 
playing  at  ball,  or  in  church,  sitting  in  their  stalls, 
turned  sideways,  with  books  in  their  hands.  As 
the  carriage  entered  the  Eulham  Road,  that  long, 
narrow,  winding  lane,  she  saw  Sister  Mary  John 
digging,  and  she  smiled  at  her  strange,  brusque 
ways.  Her  quaint  bird  came  towards  them,  hop- 
ping over  the  broken  ground,  and  she  remembered 
how  elimination  of  the  spiritual  weeds  had  resulted 
in  other  weeds. 

As  she  drove  towards  London  she  pondered  Sister 
Mary  John's  sensuous  enthusiasm  for  her  singing. 
She  knew  that  she  appealed  to  the  nun's  imagina- 
tion, and  she  knew  that  the  Prioress  appealed  to 
hers — that  she  was  charmed  by  a  wise,  sad  nun, 
by  the  woman  that  the  nun's  veil  could  not  hide, 
nor  an  extreme  old  age.  She  felt  that  the  Prioress 
had  renounced,  whereas  the  other  nuns,  or  a  great 
many  of  them,  had  refused  life. 

The  still  autumn  evening  was  like  a  magic  mir- 
ror, and  looking  into  it  she  saw  the  slow,  devotional 


SISTER    TERESA  9 

pose  of  the  old  white  hands  resting  on  the  table 
edge,  and  she  heard  the  calm,  even  voice  telling 
her  of  the  supremacy  of  the  contemplative  orders. 

As  the  carriage  drove  up  Grosvenor  Place  the 
cries  of  the  pea-fowls  in  the  gardens  of  Buckingham 
Palace  startled  her,  and  she  looked  round,  terrified 
to  find  herself  in  London  again.  The  carriage 
turned  into  Hamilton  Place.  She  was  returning 
to  the  life  of  the  world,  the  battle  with  herself  was 
about  to  begin  again;  and  though  she  felt  quite 
sure  of  herself,  the  fact  of  finding  Owen  waiting 
for  her  seemed  like  an  omen,  or  at  least  a  chal- 
lenge. He  was  waiting  for  her  at  the  head  of  the 
stairs.  There  was  a  little  nervous  smile  on  his 
lips  and  an  anxious  look  in  his  eyes.  As  she  went 
upstairs  to  meet  him,  confidence  in  God,  and  the 
confidence  in  herself,  which  her  prayers  and  the 
prayers  of  the  nuns  had  given  her,  appeared  in  her 
face,  and  Owen  wondered  at  the  extraordinary 
beauty  which  looked  at  him  out  of  her  eyes.  She 
seemed  capable  of  a  more  exalted  passion,  of  a 
more  intense  feeling,  and  his  desire  to  win  her 
back  grew  more  acute  than  ever.  She  seemed  to 
read  his  thoughts  in  his  eyes,  and  lest  she  should 
read  them  completely  he  said, — 

"  I  did  not  know  you  were  coming  home  to-day ; 
I  came  on  the  chance  of  finding  you.'' 

"  Well,  Owen,  I  wrote  to  tell  you  you  were  not 
to  come ;  but  it  sounds  ungracious  to  tell  you  so." 

"  You  said  that  I  was  not  to  come  to  see  you  for 


10  SISTER    TERESA 

three  months,  but  you  broke  your  promise.  You 
wrote  to  say  you  would  not  see  me  again;  that 
liberated  me  from  my  promise  not  to  come  to  see 
you  for  three  months,  isn't  that  so?" 

She  did  not  answer,  and  he  wondered  if  she  were 
trying  to  remember  why  she  had  written  him  that 
cruel  letter. 

"  I  am  very  glad  to  see  you,  Owen." 

"  Are  things  different  V  he  asked.  "  Tell  me  if 
things  are  worse,  and  they  are  worse  if  you  will  not 
take  me  back." 

"  Owen,  you  must  not  speak  to  me  like  that  now." 

"  And  why  not  now  ?  Where  have  you  come 
from — is  there  any  secret?" 

"  There  is  none." 

"  Merat  told  me  she  did  not  know." 

^^  And  you  concluded  there  was  a  secret.  I  have 
come  from  the  convent.     I  have  been  in  retreat." 

"  Eight  days  shut  up  in  a  convent  singing  psalms 
and  burning  incense — I  wonder  you're  here  to  tell 
the  tale." 

"  It  is  very  easy  to  speak  like  that ;  such  sarcasms 
are  easy." 

IsTeither  spoke  for  a  long  while,  and  then  they 
spoke  of  ordinary  things,  as  if  they  had  forgotten 
that  their  lives  had  come  into  a  crisis.  Suddenly, 
like  one  retaken  by  an  ache  which  had  left  him  for 
a  while,  Owen  said, — 

"  Ah  !  if  I  had  married  you  when  I  first  met  you. 
But  you  would  not  have  been  half  as  happy  as  you 


SISTER    TERESA  11 

have  been  if  I  had  set  you  up  at  Riveradale  and 
Berkeley  Square  to  entertain  the  best  people,  and 
had  loaded  jou  with  diamonds.  The  mistake  I 
made,  Evelyn,  was  not  to  liave  allowed  you  to  have 
children.  The  only  way  a  man  can  keep  a  woman 
is  through  her  children.  I  did  not  think  of  that 
at  the  time — one  cannot  think  of  everything.  But 
I  did  the  best  for  you,  Evelyn,  didn^t  I  ?  Say  that 
I  did." 

^'  Yes,  Owen,  your  conduct  was  better  than  mine, 
for  you  acted  according  to  your  lights." 

He  sprang  to  his  feet,  and  taking  a  Worcester 
vase  from  the  table  he  examined  its  design;  and 
fearing  that  he  would  dash  it  to  the  ground  Evelyn 
did  not  say  a  word ;  but  his  irritation  passed  with- 
out the  breaking  of  the  jar,  and  resuming  his  seat 
beside  her  he  saw  the  autumn  leaves,  and  the  faintly- 
flushed  sky,  and  with  a  sudden  pang  he  remembered 
that  life  is  passing  away  while  we  are  arguing  how 
to  live  it. 

^'  You  may  struggle  for  a  while,  but  the  passion 
for  the  stage  will  overtake  you." 

But  this  did  not  seem  to  him  true.  He  remem- 
bered that  the  new  idea  had  been  growing  steadily 
in  her  for  some  while,  and,  though  it  might  not 
absorb  her  entirely,  the  chances  were  against  her 
returning  to  the  stage,  l^ov  could  he  overcome  the 
feeling  that  her  talent  for  the  stage  was  an  imme- 
diate inheritance  whose  roots  did  not  go  very  deep 
into  her  nature.     Her  dramatic  talent  might  be  a 


12  SISTER    TERESA 

passing  reflection  of  her  mother's  temperament. 
Suddenly  she  heard  him  say  that  it  would  be  the 
lust  of  the  flesh  that  would  save  her  from  the  clois- 
ter ;  it  would  bring  her  back  to  life,  to  man,  maybe 
to  him.  And  once  again  he  sat  down,  and  with  a 
new  set  of  arguments  he  tried  to  convince  her  she 
was  not  intended  for  a  religious  life.  Merat  brought 
in  tea,  and  the  conversation  broke  down ;  and  after 
tea,  when  they  were  talking  of  indifferent  things, 
he  noticed  that  a  different  mood  was  preparing  in 
her.  She  sat,  as  if  fascinated,  her  huddled  knees 
full  of  temptation,  and  following  her  to  the  end 
of  the  sofa  he  seemed  to  lose  his  reason  suddenly  in 
her  atmosphere.  She  did  not  drive  him  from  her, 
but  once  looked  up  pleadingly.  He  seemed  to  dread 
her  displeasure,  for  he  merely  kissed  her  hair,  which 
hung  loose  and  thick  over  her  neck,  and  he  took  it 
in  his  fingers  and  lifted  it  from  her  neck.  He 
thought  that  to  win  her  his  lips  must  seek  to  sur- 
prise her  senses  suddenly  in  her  lips,  but  while 
holding  her  face  in  his  hands  he  was  held  back  by 
some  strange  pity,  and  in  that  moment  of  hesitation 
she  recovered  her  strength  to  resist  him. 

"  Owen,  you  must  not  make  love  to  me ;  all  that 
is  over  and  done  between  us.  Owen,  do  not  make 
it  impossible  for  me  to  see  you.  I  want  to  love  you, 
dearest,  but  not  as  I  have  loved  you;  leave  go  my 
hands;  you  have  never  yet  disobeyed  me,  and  if 
you  are  violent  I  shall  never,  never  be  able  to  see 
you  again." 


SISTER    TERESA  13 

For  a  moment  his  love  of  her  seemed  to  move 
from  earth  to  heaven ;  that  is  to  say,  from  all  that 
eyes  see,  that  ears  hear,  and  the  nostrils  inhale; 
and  he  felt  he  must  not  detain  her.  Her  face  ex- 
pressed such  purity  that  he  abandoned  her  hands, 
compelled  by  some  grave  force  which  he  could  not 
explain  or  contest.  So  nothing  came  of  this  love 
meeting  except  the  pinning  up  of  some  hair  which 
had  fallen;  and  when  he  looked  at  her  again  he 
was  not  quite  sure  that  he  had  not  misinterpreted 
the  affectionate  emotions  which  had  carried  her 
towards  him  a  moment  ago.  But  whatever  his  mis- 
take may  have  been,  her  manner  towards  him  had 
changed,  and  now  her  face  seemed  to  express  sorrow 
that  he  could  not  be  to  her  what  she  wished  him 
to  be,  and  she  seemed  to  regret  that  each  should  be 
a  temptation  to  the  other.  She  felt  that  she  ought 
to  send  him  away,  but  lacking  the  courage  to  do  so, 
she  asked  if  he  would  come  into  the  Park  with  her, 
and  they  walked  by  the  Serpentine,  conscious  of 
the  melancholy  of  the  autumn  evening.  And  lean- 
ing on  the  balustrade  of  the  bridge,  looking  into 
the  mist  which  shrouded  the  long  water,  he  thought 
of  what  he  had  told  her  of  herself,  that  her  artistic 
instincts  were  but  a  passing  reflection  of  her 
mpther^s  spirit,  whereas  the  true  romance  of  her 
life  was  in  the  sexual  instinct. 

The  stream's  banks  were  shrouded  in  a  thick  mist, 
out  of  which  the  tops  of  the  trees  emerged.  In  the 
middle  of  the  water  there  was  one  space  free  from 


14  SISTER    TERESA 

mist,  and  two  wild  ducks  with  a  whirr  of  wings 
dropped  into  the  pool  of  light;  they  swam  a  little 
way,  and  a  moment  afterwards  were  swallowed  up 
by  the  mist.  He  was  too  sad  to  be  irritated  by  any- 
thing she  might  say,  and  he  allowed  her  to  say  that 
it  was  impossible  to  deny  the  influence  of  prayer 
of  others  without  denying  the  influence  of  hypno- 
tism and  telepathy. 

^^  But  what  are  you  going  to  do  ?  How  is  all  this 
to  end  ?  You  are  not  going  to  shut  yourself  up  in 
a  convent,  nor  devote  yourself  to  philanthropic 
work.  You  have  no  plans,  I  believe,  except  perhaps 
to  live  a  chaste  life.'^ 

^'  Owen,  I  had  to  change  my  life.  Except  for 
a  moment  I  took  no  pleasure  in  anything." 

He  noticed  how  her  face  became  suddenly  grave, 
and  that  the  intimate  secret  of  her  nature  seemed 
to  rise  to  her  lips  when  she  said  that  whatever 
spirituality  she  might  attain  to  she  would  attain  to 
through  chastity. 

'^  We  have  only  a  certain  amount  of  force.  A 
certain  amount  goes  to  support  life,  and  the  rest 
we  may  expend  upon  a  lover,  or  upon  our  spiritual 
life." 

"  But  this  cannot  be  the  last  time  I  shall  see  you, 
Evelyn,"  he  said,  when  she  mentioned  that  it  was 
growing  late  and  that  she  must  be  returning  home. 
"  How  shall  T  live  without  you,  alone  in  Berkeley 
Square,  nothing  to  do  but  to  think  of  my  lost  hap- 
piness ?" 


SISTER    TERESA  15 

"  You  are  lonelj  because  you  will  not  allow  any- 
one to  come  between  you  and  yourself." 

They  were  walking  towards  home,  and  for  a  mo- 
ment he  believed  it  to  be  his  lot  to  be  her  husband. 

"  Will  you  marry  me,  Evelyn  ?" 

"  Owen,  you  should  have  asked  me  before." 

In  that  moment  it  seemed  to  her  too  that  her  des- 
tiny was  beside  her,  and  she  did  not  dare  to  look  up 
lest  she  should  see  it,  and  she  was  mortally  afraid 
of  what  was  happening.  For  if  he  had  pressed  her 
for  a  definite  "  yes"  or  ^^  no"  she  felt  sure  she  would 
never  have  had  the  force  to  resist,  particularly  if 
he  had  said,  "  Well,  let  us  go  away  at  once."  If  he 
had  pressed  an  immediate  flight,  she  would  have 
assented,  and  a  fate  that  would  have  been  quite 
unlike  her  would  be  her  fate.  But  our  fate  is  more 
like  ourselves  than  we  are  aware. 

It  was  at  that  moment  that  Owen  decided  that 
when  the  door  opened  he  would  follow  her  upstairs, 
he  would  say  he  had  forgotten  his  cigarette-case, 
any  excuse  would  do,  and  then  in  the  drawing-room 
he  would  overpower  the  will  of  the  nuns  and  her 
will  in  a  kiss.  So  intent  was  he  on  his  plans  that 
he  could  hardly  continue  the  conversation. 

"  Owen,  good-bye,"  she  said.  "  I  won't  ask  you 
to  come  up." 

^^  I  have  forgotten  my  cigarette-case." 

'^  I  saw  you  take  it  out  of  your  pocket,  and  you 
lit  a  cigarette,  do  you  not  remember  ?" 


16  SISTEK    TEEESA 

He  searched  his  pockets  and  admitted  she  was 
right. 

The  door  opened  and  she  entered,  hardly  pausing 
on  the  threshold  to  say  good-bye. 

The  memory  of  the  summer  evening  he  had  taken 
her  away  to  Paris  arose  in  his  mind,  and  his  con- 
duct on  that  occasion  seemed  to  him  to  have  been 
much  wiser,  and  he  could  not  recognise  the  man 
in  the  first  adventure  with  the  man  in  the  present 
one.  If  he  had  not  wavered  he  would  have  won 
her — for  a  while;  and  he  heard  her  telling  him 
what  suffering  chastity  is  in  a  woman  of  her  tem- 
perament. If  he  had  asked  her  to  go  away  with 
him  in  The  Medusa  her  face  would  have  darkened, 
and  on  the  morrow  she  would  come  to  him,  her 
face  set  in  iron  determination,  or  would  have  writ- 
ten him  one  of  those  cold,  acid  letters,  which  he 
dreaded  even  more  than  the  personal  interview. 
He  hated  suffering,  and  it  was  his  hatred  of  suffer- 
ing which  had  made  him  refrain.  He  could  not 
have  acted  otherwise;  very  likely  other  men  could 
have,  but  he  had  never  been  able  to  make  love  to 
a  woman  against  her  will.  He  seemed  on  the  point 
of  remembering  something,  and  then  he  began  to 
remember  as  one  remembers  a  dream;  he  was  not 
certain  whether  he  were  inventing  or  remembering, 
but  it  did  seem  to  him  that  he  had  been  prevented 
from  making  love  to  Evelyn  by  some  power,  gentle 
and  yet  irresistible.    His  reason  rebelled  against  the 


SISTER   TERESA  17 

admission  that  others  had  been  in  the  room.  But 
it  did  seem  as  if  these  nuns  had  intervened.  He 
exclaimed  against  the  folly  of  his  thoughts,  and 
wandered  on.  He  eventually  turned  into  a  club  in 
hopes  of  finding  Harding. 


IT 

Mekat  had  come  downstairs  to  tell  her  mistress 
that  a  pair  of  stockings  were  missing.  But  Evelyn 
did  not  answer  her,  and  she  hoped  the  footman 
would  not  bring  the  lamp  yet. 

"  You  must  have  left  them  at  your  father's.  If 
you  will  write  to-night  .  .  ." 

"  Xo,  Merat,  I  did  not  leave  them  at  my  father's. 
I  left  them  at  the  convent." 

She  wished  her  maid  to  know  that  her  relations 
with  Sir  Owen  would  be  different  from  thenceforth, 
and  it  seemed  to  her  that  a  mention  of  the  convent 
would  be  sufficient  for  the  moment.  Better  the  truth 
than  ugly  rumours  that  Owen  had  left  her  for 
another  woman,  or  that  she  had  left  him  for  another 
man.  She  wished  Merat  would  leave  her,  but  Merat 
was  much  interested  in  her  mistress's  visit  to  the 
convent ;  and  Evelyn  was  surprised  to  find  that  her 
maid's  ideas  regarding  a  vocation  were  more  sim- 
ple and  explicit  than  her  own.  "  There  are  those," 
she  said,  "  who  slip  away  from  life  when  they  are 
very  young,  before  life  has  fairly  caught  them, 
and  those  who  have  had  a  disappointment,  and  feel 
there  is  nothing  else  for  them." 

"  But  you,  miss,  you  could  never  live  their  life ; 

you  are  too  old,  or  not  old  enough." 
18 


SISTER    TERESA  19 

And  when  Merat  left  her,  Evelyn  considered 
how  she  had  discovered  two  instincts  in  herself, 
an  inveterate  sensuality  and  a  sincere  aspiration 
for  a  spiritual  life.  Which  would  survive  ?  As  she 
sat  over  the  fire  pondering,  there  came  to  her  what 
seemed  like  a  third  revelation — that  the  sexual 
trouble  was  but  the  surface  of  her  nature,  that  be- 
yond it  there  was  a  deeper  nature  whose  depths  were 
yet  unsounded.  But  if  she  had  fallen  she  would 
have  had  to  confess,  and  how  could  she  go  to  Mon- 
signor  and  tell  him  that  on  the  very  day  she  came 
back  from  the  convent  she  had  nearly  yielded  her- 
self to  Owen.  He  would  lose  all  faith,  all  interest 
in  her,  and  his  interest  in  her  meant  a  great  deal 
to  her.  She  had  escaped,  how  she  did  not  know, 
by  accident  seemingly.  On  another  occasion  she 
might  not  be  so  lucky,  and  she  would  go  through 
agonies  of  conscience  and  eventually  confess  her 
sins,  for  any  long  returning  to  her  old  life  was  out 
of  the  question.  So  perhaps  she  had  better  write 
to  Owen,  saying  he  must  not  come  to  see  her.  But 
of  what  use,  since  she  would  be  sure  to  meet  him 
at  Lady  Ascott's  ?  But  Lady  Ascott  would  disap- 
pear from  her  life,  and  her  friends  too.  Yet  she 
had  once  looked  on  these  people  as  her  life,  and 
on  Lady  Ascott  as  a  dear  and  intimate  friend. 
Xow  she  seemed  far  away,  and  her  people  seemed 
far  away,  a  sort  of  distant  coast-line,  and  there 
were  others  besides  Lady  Ascott  and  they  all  seemed 
to  be  receding.    There  was  no  reason  why  she  should 


20  SISTER    TERESA 

not  see  them,  nothing  forbade  her;  but  she  would 
not  know  what  to  say  to  them  now.  There  were 
other  friends — men.  She  feared  that  men  still 
interested  her  as  much  as  ever;  and  the  fact  that 
she  was  going  to  deny  herself  did  not  seem  to 
make  any  difference.  Besides  Owen  and  Ulick 
there  were  many  men  whom  she  liked,  whom  she 
had  often  looked  at  as  possible  lovers,  men  who 
sent  her  flowers  and  books  and  music,  and  whom 
she  met  by  appointment  in  picture-galleries,  men 
whom  she  wrote  to  occasionally,  for  beyond  the 
single  net  in  which  we  are  caught  there  is  a  vaster 
retriculation.  If  all  these  men  were  to  be  put  away 
she  would  receive  no  more  letters — ^women's  letters 
are  from  men,  as  men^s  letters  are  from  women. 
For  the  human  animal  finds  in  the  opposite  sex 
the  greater  part  of  his  and  her  mental  life.  She 
had  heard  Owen  say  that  the  arts  rose  out  of  sex; 
that  when  man  ceased  to  capture  women  he  cut  a 
feed  and  blew  a  tune  to  win  her,  and  that  it  was 
not  until  he  had  won  her  that  he  began  to  take 
an  interest  in  the  tune  for  its  own  sake. 

Her  own  desire  of  art  had  been  inseparably  linked 
to  her  desire  to  please  men.  Three  days  ago  she 
had  looked  down  from  the  organ  loft  to  see  if 
there  were  any  men  among  the  congregation,  know- 
ing she  would  not  sing  so  well  if  she  were  only 
singing  to  women. 

"  But  how  am  I  to  fill  the  days  ?"  she  thought 
a«  she  rose  from  her  chair,  "  without  lovers,  with- 


SISTER    TERESA  21 

out  an  occupation.  Three  parts  of  my  life  are 
gone ;   nothing  remains  but  religion." 

Hitherto  her  life  had  been  lived  according  to 
rule,  and  she  had  enjoyed  her  life  most  when  the 
rule  that  her  art  had  imposed  upon  her  had  been 
severe.  Her  happiest  hours  had  been  those  she 
had  spent  in  Madame  Savelli's  class-rooms.  Then 
her  days  had  been  divided  out,  and  there  had  been 
few  infractions  of  the  rule.  The  little  interruptions 
Owen  had  pleaded  for  were  not  frequent,  nor  did 
they  last  long.  His  interest  in  her  voice  had  always 
been  so  dominant  an  interest  that  he  had  subordi- 
nated his  pleasures  to  her  voice.  It  was  she  who 
had  wished  to  play  truant  and  had  said, — 

"  But  you  go  away  to  your  shooting  and  your 
hunting,  to  your  London  friends.  I  am  always  a 
prisoner,  and  Olive  is  a  strict  warder." 

During  the  five  years  in  which  she  had  practised 
her  art,  she  had  never  escaped  from  the  discipline 
of  art ;  her  life  had  been  a  routine. 

"  Religion  always  seems  to  fling  me  into  a  waste 
of  idleness,"  she  said  aloud,  and  she  remembered 
that  her  first  qualms  of  conscience  had  led  her  to 
the  part  of  Fidelio;  she  did  not  think  she  would 
have  learnt  the  part  of  Isolde  if  she  had  not  met 
Ulick.  Her  love  of  him  was  her  last  artistic  in- 
spiration; the  thought  amused  her  for  a  moment, 
and  she  walked  across  the  room  thinking  of  the 
weariness  of  freedom.  As  she  took  down  a  book, 
she  paused  to  remember  how  her  first  notes  were 


22  SISTER    TERESA 

held  in  view  almost  from  earlj  morning.  How, 
after  mid-day,  every  hour  was  a  preparation  for 
the  essential  hours.  How  on  her  singing  days  she 
avoided  all  that  might  distract  her  thoughts  from 
her  part.  She  opened  no  letters,  and  spoke  very 
little;  and  after  having  dined  lightly  she  read 
her  music. 

On  the  days  she  was  not  singing  her  accom- 
panist came  at  ten  o'clock,  and  she  was  with  him 
for  at  least  three  hours;  and  after  we  have  done 
three  hours'  work  the  rest  of  the  day  passes  almost 
without  our  perceiving  that  it  is  passing.  We 
have  no  need  to  think  how  we  shall  spend  it;  it 
just  spends  itself.     It  sheds  itself  like  seed. 

On  her  ofF  days  Owen  was  ready  with  some  pro- 
ject, a  visit  to  a  picture-gallery,  a  ride  in  the  coun- 
try; and  if  Owen  were  not  with  her,  Olive  was 
waiting  to  take  her  shopping.  The  choice  of  her 
clothes,  and  the  making  of  them,  used  to  take  a 
great  deal  of  her  time;  henceforth  it  would  take 
very  little  of  it.  She  thought  of  Olive,  of  Olive 
with  whom  she  had  lived  for  six  years,  and  who 
was  no  more  than  an  appetite  for  facile  amuse- 
ment. Owen's  materialism  was  deep,  but  not  so 
deep  as  Olive's;  in  her  there  was  no  relaxation, 
no  sighing  of  the  flesh  after  the  spirit  when  the 
flesh  is  weary;  she  was  the  same  through  and 
through  like  a  ball  of  lard.  Evelyn  remembered 
that  she  would  have  to  write  and  tell  her  that  she 
had  retired  from  the  stage.     Olive  would  not  take 


SISTER    TERESA  23 

her  dismissal  easily,  and  feeling  she  could  not 
argue  with  her,  Evelyn  turned  in  her  chair  and 
sat  looking  into  the  fire.  Suddenly  it  occurred  to 
her  that  it  was  Owen  who  should  break  the  news 
to  Olive,  and  she  wrote  asking  him  to  explain  that 
she  had  left  the  stage.  It  was  not  necessary  to 
say  any  more;  she  thought  perhaps  it  would  be 
as  well  to  add  that  he  must  try  to  dissuade  Olive 
from  sending  any  information  to  the  papers. 

The  only  one  of  her  former  friends  whose  ac- 
quaintance she  cared  to  continue  was  Louise. 
Louise^s  lovers  did  not  trouble  her;  Louise  must 
look  after  her  own  soul.  But  what  would  they  talk 
about  ?  Hitherto  their  art  had  always  been  a  source 
of  intimate  interest  to  them.  .  .  .  She  had  given 
up  singing,  so  what  would  they  talk  about?  She 
might  go  through  Louise's  parts  with  her.  But 
she  knew  she  would  not  care  to  do  that,  nor  could 
they  talk  about  singing.  She  did  not  want  to  hear 
of  music,  especially  of  the  music  with  which  she 
had  been  associated.  So  all  her  friends  must  go — 
composers  and  conductors,  tenors  and  basses,  all  her 
fellow  artistes  at  whose  rooms  she  liked  to  make 
appointments.  All  the  adventure  of  rehearsals 
M^ould  henceforth  be  unknown  to  her,  and  all  those 
whom  she  used  to  meet  at  rehearsals,  various  dilet- 
tante Bohemians  and  critics,  all  would  disappear 
from  her  life. 

She  sometimes  thought  of  sending  away  her 
piano,  for  there  is  something  sad  in  the  sight  of  a 


24  SISTER    TEEESA 

person  or  even  of  a  thing  that  has  absorbed  much 
of  our  lives,  and  the  sight  of  her  piano  and  the 
music  scores — the  scores  which  she  knew  so  well, 
and  which  she  would  never  open  again — caused  her 
to  sigh,  to  yearn,  to  look  back,  and  this  revelation 
of  her  life  had  been  brought  about  by  an  idea.  If 
Owen  were  to  come  to  her  with  proof  that  there 
was  no  future  state  it  would  be  just  the  samel 
She  paused  like  one  in  front  of  a  great  discovery. 
We  have  only  to  change  our  ideas  to  change  our 
friends.  Our  friends  are  only  a  more  or  less  im- 
perfect embodiment  of  our  ideas. 

And  as  she  stood  by  the  window  watching  the 
decaying  foliage  in  the  Park,  she  realised  that  the 
problem  of  her  life  was  the  discovery  of  an  occu- 
pation. She  had  just  come  from  a  lunch  at  Owen 
Asher's.  She  had  met  him  a  few  evenings  ago 
as  she  came  out  of  a  concert-room,  whither  she  had 
been  driven  by  terror  of  her  lonely  drawing-room, 
rather  than  by  a  desire  of  the  music.  Owen  had 
spoken  to  her  in  the  vestibule  and  she  could  see 
that  he  would  always  love  her,  whether  she  were 
well  or  ill,  glad  or  sad,  failing  or  successful.  She 
had  perceived  this  as  the  crowd  jostled  past  her, 
and  she  was  touched  by  it,  and  had  promised  to 
limch  with  him.  But  fearing  she  would  not  lunch 
with  him  alone,  he  had  mentioned  a  number  of 
names.  She  would  sooner  have  lunched  with  him 
alone,  but  she  did  not  dare  to  say  so,  and  he  had 
invited  the  usual  people,  women  whom  she  had 


SISTER    TERESA  26 

once  considered  her  intimate  friends,  and  men  with 
whom  she  had  flirted.  She  remembered  that  she  had 
once  thought  them  all  clever,  and  now  they  seemed 
to  her  like  the  toys  the  showman  winds  and  allows 
to  run  a  little  way  along  the  pavement  before  he 
picks  them  up.  The  vivid  unreality  of  these  peo- 
ple she  attributed  to  the  fact  that  they  lived  in  the 
mere  surface  of  life ;  in  the  animal  sensation  rather 
than  in  the  moral  idea ;  and  she  reflected  that  she 
had  not  only  not  been  happy,  but  had  never  seemed 
to  get  even  into  touch  with  existence  until  she  had 
decided  that  there  was  a  right  and  a  wrong  way. 

But  these  women  had  asked  her  to  dine  with 
them;  they  had  promised  to  write,  and  she  would 
have  to  invent  pretexts,  and  she  had  no  aptitude 
for  the  composition  of  such  letters.  If  she  accepted 
their  invitations  she  would  have  to  talk  to  them  on 
subjects  which  did  not  interest  her.  If  she  were 
to  tell  them  her  ideas — she  shrugged  her  shoulders 
and  walked  away  from  the  window.  This  lunch 
seemed  to  have  flung  her  back  again.  Owen  had 
asked  if  he  might  come  to  see  her.  He  had  told 
her  he  was  going  abroad  in  order  that  he  might 
forget  her,  and  had  asked  if  he  might  come  again 
to  say  good-bye.  She  hated  scenes  of  parting,  but 
others  did  not  think  as  she  did,  and  she  had  given 
her  consent  to  a  last  visit.  It  would  have  been  dif&- 
cult  and  disagreeable  for  her  to  have  refused,  but 
she  would  have  refused  if  she  had  not  felt  singularly 
sure  of  herself.     Her  sex  seemed  to  have  fallen 


26  SISTER    TERESA 

from  her.  For  many  days  she  did  not  seem  to 
know  that  she  was  a  woman,  and  feeling  sure  this 
visit  would  prove  wearisome  she  tried  to  look  upon 
it  in  the  light  of  a  mortification.  But  from  such 
moods  there  is  always  a  reaction,  and  the  visit  had 
been  an  agreeable  one.  He  won  her  affection  in 
spite  of  herself.  Never  had  he  seemed  less  hard, 
less  material,  and  at  the  end  of  the  week  he  had 
won  his  way  into  most  of  his  old  intimacy.  They 
had  been  for  a  walk  in  the  Park  and  had  been  to 
see  some  pictures,  and  during  the  first  week  of  this 
renewal  of  their  intimacy  he  neither  said  nor  did 
anything  to  which  she  could  raise  any  objection 
until  one  day,  after  saying  he  was  waiting  for  a 
telegram  from  the  yacht,  he  kissed  her  on  the  fore- 
head. He  might  never  see  her  again,  he  said,  and 
she  thought  that  it  did  not  matter  much  as  he  was 
leaving.  But  no  telegram  came  from  Marseilles, 
and  his  stay  in  London  was  indefinitely  prolonged. 
Soon  after  he  produced  a  text  in  support  of  his 
contention  that  sin  did  not  begin  in  a  kiss,  and 
he  pleaded  to  be  allowed  to  kiss  her  on  the  fore- 
head and  on  the  cheek.  She  begged  him  not  to, 
but  it  is  impossible  to  resist  always,  and  he  assured 
her  that  such  kisses  would  not  trouble  her  con- 
science. The  opinion  of  the  Fathers  on  the  danger 
of  kisses  was  debated;  he  struggled  with  her  and 
got  the  better  of  her  in  the  struggle  and  the  argu- 
ment. But  his  success  did  not  prevail.  For  on 
the  following  day  he  saw,  when  he  came  into  the 


SISTER    TERESA  2Y 

room,  that  there  would  be  but  little  pleasure  in 
this  visit,  and  regretted  his  indiscretions. 

"  You  don't  mean  to  saj  that  jou  are  so  absurd 
as  to  have  scruples  of  conscience  about  that  kiss?" 

"  Yes,  I  think  I  have.  You  see,  it  is  all  true  to 
me,  and  things  can't  be  at  once  absurd  and  true." 

"  It  is  terrible  that  you  should  be  like  this.  But 
let  us  change  the  subject.  What  about  that  song 
of  mine  ?" 

She  looked  in  the  direction  of  the  clock  before 
beginning  to  sing,  and  he  guessed  something  litur- 
gical— Benediction  ?  and  his  hand  dropped  on  her 
shoulder. 

"  Are  jou  offended  ?" 

"  'Not  exactly,  but  I  have  often  told  you  I  do 
not  approve  of  kisses  unless " 

"Unless  what?" 

"  Unless  you  are  going  to  make  love  to  me,  and 
as  that  can  never  be  again " 

"  You  don't  see  that  an  affectionate  regard  may 
be " 

"  I  must  send  you  away  now." 

"  When  may  I  see  you  again  ?" 

"  I'll  write." 

He  had  kissed  her,  and  she  knew  how  kisses 
ended,  at  least  in  her  case,  and  she  was  determined 
to  dally  with  temptation  no  longer.  She  had  been 
walking  about  nearly  all  last  night,  and  she  had  con- 
vinced herself  that  as  she  was  determined  not  to 
go  back  to  her  old  life,  the  only  thing  to  do  was 


28  SISTEK    TERESA 

to  do  as  Monsignor  had  told  her,  and  to  refrain 
from  seeing  either  Owen  or  Ulick  again.  To  do 
this  she  must  put  her  old  life  completely  aside.  She 
must  sell  her  house  in  Park  Lane  and  get  another 
which  would  be  more  in  keeping  with  her  ideas. 
A-bove  all,  she  must  get  some  work  to  do ;  she  could 
not  live  without  occupation.  On  all  these  points 
no  one  was  so  competent  to  advise  her  as  Mon^ 
signor. 

"  You  see,  Monsignor,  one  cannot  think  of  one^s 
soul  all  day.  There  is  Mass  in  the  morning,  and 
Benediction  in  the  afternoon,  and  nothing  else — 
neither  work  nor  pleasure.'' 

He  deliberated,  and  she  waited,  eager  to  hear 
what  advice  he  would  give. 

"  When  I  advised  jou  to  leave  the  stage,  I  did 
not  mean  you  were  to  abandon  art,"  and  he  spoke 
of  Handel  and  Bach,  as  she  expected  he  would. 

"  Well,  Monsignor,  perhaps  you  won't  understand 
me  at  all,  and  will  think  me  very  wilful;  but  I 
am  not  to  sing  the  music  I  made  a  success  in,  I 
don't  want  to  sing  at  all.  I  can't  do  things  by 
halves.    I  am  either  on  the  stage  or " 

"  In  a  convent,"  he  added,  smiling,  and  Evelyn 
could  not  help  smiling,  for  she  recognised  herself 
in  the  antithesis ;  and  it  was  not  until  she  had  got 
up  to  go  that  she  remembered  she  had  forgotten 
to  ask  him  to  recommend  her  a  solicitor  who  would 
negotiate  the  sale  of  her  house  for  her,  and  invest 
her  capital  at  reasonable  interest. 


SISTER    TERESA  29 

"  This  is  a  matter  on  which  I  cannot  speak  off- 
hand, and  I  must  send  you  away  now.  But  I  will 
write  to  you  on  the  subject,  probably  to-morrow. 
Come  to  see  me  on  Friday." 

To  see  Monsignor,  to  hear  him,  even  to  think 
of  him,  was  a  help  to  her,  and  in  the  course  of 
the  interview  she  decided  she  would  write  that 
night  to  Owen,  telling  him  he  must  not  come  to 
see  her  again.  She  composed  her  letter  as  she  went 
along  the  street,  and  wrote  it  the  moment  she  got 
home.  She  expected  he  would  send  his  valet  in 
the  course  of  the  morning  with  a  letter,  but  the 
only  letter  that  came  was  one  from  Monsignor, 
recommending  a  solicitor  to  her,  and  for  three  or 
four  days  she  was  busy  making  arrangements  for 
the  sale  of  her  furniture  and  her  pictures,  and 
looking  out  for  a  small  flat  which  she  could  furnish 
in  a  simple  way. 

"  You  are  very  lucky,"  Monsignor  said.  "  If 
Mr.  Enderwick  says  you  will  have  four  hundred 
a  year  you  can  rely  on  it,  and  you  will  be  able  to 
live  comfortably  and  do  not  a  little  good.  I  have 
been  thinking  of  what  you  said  to  me  about  the 
need  of  occupation.  I  quite  agree  with  you  that 
you  cannot  live  in  idleness." 

Returning  to  the  question  of  concert  singing, 
he  begged  her  to  consider  the  money  she  could  earn, 
and  the  good  use  she  could  put  it  to.  There 
were  so  many  deserving  cases,  really  sad  cases, 
which  he  could  bring  to  her  notice;    and  once  we 


30  SISTER    TERESA 

are  brought  into  touch  with  the  poor  it  is  extraor- 
dinary the  sympathy  they  discover  in  our  hearts. 

"  I'm  afraid,  Monsignor,  you  are  mistaken  in 
me.  I  do  not  think  I  could  be  of  much  use  in 
philanthropic  work." 

"  But,  my  dear  child,  you  have  not  tried." 
"  You  will  think  me  very  wicked,   Monsignor, 
but  I  fear  I  do  not  even  wish  to  try — that  is  not 
the  direction  in  which  my  sympathy  takes  me." 


m 

Her  pictures,  furniture  and  china  were  on  view 
at  Christie's  at  the  end  of  l^ovember,  and  all  Owen's 
friends  met  each  other  in  the  rooms  and  on  the 
staircase. 

Lady  Ascott  sailed  in  one  afternoon,  sweeping 
the  floor  with  a  flowing  tea-gown,  which  she  held 
up  in  front.  She  wore  white  satin  shoes,  and  it 
was  debated  in  distant  corners  whether  she  did  so 
from  choice  or  because  she  had  worn  them  at  a 
party  the  night  before.  She  was  escorted  by  men 
of  culture  of  different  ages.  Her  art  critic  walked 
on  her  right  hand.  He  was  tall  and  dark  and 
solemn,  and  a  few  years  ago  he  had  been  good- 
looking,  but  lately  he  had  seriously  fattened  out 
in  the  cheeks  and  in  the  waist.  He  strove  to  ignore 
the  testimony  of  time  by  keeping  his  coat,  which 
was  an  old  one,  buttoned,  and  he  still  wore  the 
same  sized  gloves,  seven  and  three-quarters,  and 
his  hands  looked  like  little  dumplings  in  them.  His 
eyes  were  small  and  malign,  and  he  looked  into  the 
corners  of  the  face  of  the  person  he  was  talking 
to,  as  he  would  into  the  corners  of  a  picture.  A 
lock  of  coarse  black  hair  trailed  across  a  sallow 
brow,  and  he  affected  an  air  of  aloofness  when  lis- 
tening,  and  there  were  occasions  when  he  stood 

31 


32  SISTEK    TEKESA 

apart  in  carefully-considered  attitudes.  He  was 
a  dealer  by  nature  and  a  critic  by  accident.  He 
had  taken  notes  of  all  cracks  and  restorations ;  and 
he  had  lately  returned  from  Italy  where  he  had 
been  collecting  information  for  his  book — Bellini, 
His  Life  and  Works. 

Lady  Ascott's  musical  critic  walked  on  her  left. 
He  was  a  tall,  thin,  angular  man,  with  a  small, 
meagre,  clean-shaven  face,  and  pale  eyes,  in  which 
a  nervous  despair  floated  for  a  moment,  and  then 
vanished,  for  his  manner  was  high-spirited  and 
cheerful.  He  spoke  in  a  thin  voice  which  sug- 
gested the  ecclesiastic,  and  his  eyes  seemed  to 
reflect  back  ritual,  and  his  dry,  rigid  manner  sug- 
gested one  to  whom  doctrine  was  a  necessity — one 
to  whom  rule  was  essential.  He  had  written  on 
Wagner,  Palestrina  and  the  plain  chant.  He  had 
read  all  the  books;  he  had  been  librarian  in  a 
ducal  library,  and  curator  in  a  museum. 

At  parties  a  sudden  lassitude  often  invaded  his 
mind,  and  he  strayed  from  the  conversation  to  the 
piano ;  and  when  he  returned  to  his  lodgings  after 
the  party  he  looked  round  the  room  frightened,  and 
hurried  to  bed  hoping  to  escape  from  thoughts  in 
sleep. 

Lady  Ascott's  literary  critic  followed  a  few  yards 
in  the  rear,  and  occasionally  in  her  rapid  excursion 
down  the  rooms  Lady  Ascott  called  to  him,  address- 
ing a  remark  to  him,  which  he  answered  timidly. 
He  had  been  lately  discovered  in  the  depths  of  a 
museum,  and  had  not  yet  caught  the  manner  of 


SISTER    TERESA  33 

Society.  He  was  feeling  his  way.  He  was  a  man 
of  sixty,  gaunt,  and  wrinkled  like  a  pelican  about 
the  throat.  He  meditated,  as  he  walked,  on  Hard- 
ing^s  objections  to  his  article  on  style.  Harding 
had  said  he  did  not  believe  in  the  possibility  of 
writing  ineptitudes  in  good  style.  Harding  had 
said  that  he  had  known  Hugo,  Banville  and  Tour- 
gueneff  and  that  they  had  never  spoken  of  style. 
He  had  said  that  the  gods  do  not  talk  theology: 
"  they  leave  theology  to  the  inferior  saints  and  the 
clergy,"  and  the  critic  was  distressed  in  his  choco- 
late-coloured overcoat. 

This  artistic  party  was  met  at  the  end  of  the 
room  by  a  fashionably-dressed  young  stockbroker 
in  whom  Lady  Ascott  was  developing  a  taste  for 
Aubusson  carpets,  eighteenth-century  prints  and 
Waterford  glass.  On  its  way  round  the  room  it 
was  met  by  a  fox-hunter,  who  wore  his  hair  long 
and  looked  like  a  tragic  actor,  by  a  politician  who 
played  Bach,  by  a  noble  earl  who  shot  five  thousand 
head  of  game  every  year,  and  painted  three  hundred 
water-colours.  In  the  adjoining  room  this  party 
increased  in  numbers.  Lady  Southwick,  whose  in- 
fidelities to  her  husband  were  often  prompted  by 
her  desire  to  succour  her  poor  people,  joined  it,  and 
Evelyn's  conversion  was  discussed  by  all  these 
fashionable  people. 

Everyone  was  anxious  to  express  an  opinion; 
but  there  was  a  general  disposition  to  hear  Lady 
Southwick's  opinion,  and  smiles  hovered  round  the 

3 


34  SISTEK    TEKESA 

corners  of  moiiths  when  she  spoke  of  the  money 
Evelyn  might  have  contributed  to  hospitals  and 
other  charities  if  she  remained  on  the  stage.  These 
smiles  vanished  when  she  said  she  conld  not  see  any- 
thing for  Evelyn  but  a  contemplative  order.  This 
seemed  reasonable,  but  Lady  Ascott  said  she  could 
not  see  Evelyn  a  good  little  nun  to  the  end  of  her 
days,  and  her  art  critic  enforced  this  opinion  with 
a  suggestion  of  suicide.  A  suicide  in  a  convent  had 
never  been  heard  of;  and  the  idea  was  considered 
distinctly  amusing.  There  were  fish-ponds  in  the 
convent  gardens,  and  the  nuns  might  find  her  float- 
ing in  the  morning — a  convent  Ophelia !  The  liter- 
ary critic,  who,  till  now,  had  said  little,  seized  this 
chance  to  join  in  the  conversation,  and  strove  to 
redeem  his  silence  by  the  suggestion  that  she  might 
leave  the  convent  and  proceed  to  the  East  in  quest 
of  the  ultimate  learning.  He  saw  the  last  of  her 
on  board  a  steamer  in  the  Suez  Canal.  In  the  ful- 
ness of  his  idea  the  critic  unbuttoned  his  chocolate 
overcoat,  but  just  as  his  audience  were  beginning 
to  apprehend  his  idea,  Lady  Ascott  spied  Sir  Owen 
at  the  other  end  of  the  room. 

Sir  Owen's  waistcoat  was  embroidered,  and  it 
still  went  in  at  the  waist.  He  wore  a  tiny  mauve 
necktie,  and  still  a  little  conscious  of  the  assistance 
his  valet  had  been  to  him,  he  walked  down  the  room 
with  a  long  swinging  stride.  Everyone  prepared 
an  observation  which  it  was  hoped  would  please 
him.    The  art  and  musical  critics  spoke  of  the  great 


SISTER    TEEESA  85 

loss  that  Art  had  sustained,  Lady  Ascott  of  the  loss 
that  Society  had  sustained,  but  the  literary  critic, 
who  did  not  know  Sir  Owen,  spoke  sympathetically 
of  the  religious  idea.  It  was  expected  that  Sir 
Owen  would  blaspheme,  but  he  was  unexpectedly 
gentle  and  sad ;  and  eventually  he  took  Lady  South- 
wick  round  the  room,  and  explained  to  her  that 
Wedgwood  and  Hogarth  were  England^s  great  ar- 
tists. He  pressed  a  Wedgwood  dinner-service  upon 
her,  urging  that  it  would  be  a  souvenir  of  himself 
and  Evelyn.  He  told  her  that  the  satinwood  card 
tables,  which  he  had  bought  for  ten  shillings  a-piece, 
would  be  sold  for  thirty  or  forty  pounds  a-piece, 
and  that  night  at  dinner  Lady  Southwick  raised  a 
laugh  at  his  expense,  so  amusingly  did  she  tell  how 
his  sentimental  affliction  would  be  alleviated  if  the 
sale  should  prove  a  vindication  of  his  taste. 

The  remarkable  event  of  the  sale  was  the  selling 
of  the  Boucher  drawing — a  woman  lying  on  her 
stomach,  her  legs  apart,  a  drawing  in  red  chalk, 
drawn  very  freely  and  in  a  voluptuous  sense  which 
would  make  it  popular.  Sir  Owen  had  bought  it 
at  the  beginning  of  the  year  for  eighty-seven  pounds, 
and  it  was  thought  that  it  would  fetch  three  times 
that  sum.  All  Lady  Ascott's  set  crowded  into  the 
auction-room  to  watch  Owen  Asher  bidding  for  this 
drawing.  The  bidding  stopped  at  a  hundred  and 
twenty-five  pounds,  and  the  auctioneer  waited  for 
Sir  Owen ;  his  women  friends  were  looking  at  him ; 
but  he  went  on  explaining  his  theory  on  the  incom- 


36  SISTER    TERESA 

patibility  of  art  and  empire  to  a  Jew  financier,  and 
while  he  spoke  of  the  Colonies  as  a  Brixton  girdle, 
the  drawing  was  knocked  down  to  a  young  Russian. 
Owen  cursed  the  financier  and  explained  how  it  had 
all  happened,  but  everyone  wanted  to  know  who  the 
young  Russian  was,  and  why  he  had  bought  the 
drawing. 

And  while  her  furniture  and  pictures  were  being 
sold  at  Christie's,  Evelyn  showed  a  girl,  whom  she 
had  met  at  her  father's  concerts,  over  her  flat.  The 
interest  with  which  this  girl  had  followed  the  music 
had  attracted  Evelyn's  attention;  she  had  spoken 
to  her  after  the  concert,  and  had  discovered  she  was 
a  metal  worker.  She  had  given  her  an  order  for 
some  electric-light  fittings. 

"  I  should  like  a  twist  in  the  middle  of  the  stem 
like  this." 

"  I  am  afraid  we  could  not  twist  it  like  this ; 
this  twist  was  done  when  the  iron  was  hot ;  we  could 
imitate  the  twist,  but  you  would  hardly  like  that."* 

"  Yes,  but  how  did  you  learn  the  work  ?" 

"  I  have  only  lately  taken  it  up — ^I  go  three  times 
a  week  to  a  forge  in  Clerkenwell." 

Evelyn  could  see  that  this  girl  wore  the  same 
black  dress  all  the  year  through,  and  the  same  black 
straw  hat.  She  probably  lived  in  a  room  which  she 
shared  with  another  girl;  very  likely  they  cooked 
their  own  food  and  did  without  their  lunch  in  order 
that  they  might  save  money  to  pay  for  a  subscription 
for  her  father's  concerts      She  saw  their  lives  por- 


SISTER    TERESA  37 

tioned  out  in  effort  to  gain  their  livelihood,  and  to 
get  now  and  then  an  artistic  interest.  To  be  with 
this  girl  was  like  the  air  of  the  sea-shore  after  the 
stale  air  of  London. 

At  Christmas  her  moral  impulses  compelled  her 
to  leave  her  flat  and  to  go  to  Dulwich  to  live  with 
her  father.  She  took  Merat  with  her  and  lived  with 
him  for  three  months ;  and  her  whole  life  was  sub- 
jected to  his  wishes.  She  copied  manuscripts  for 
him,  and  she  relieved  him  of  the  most  wearisome 
part  of  his  work  by  undertaking  the  teaching  of  the 
trebles.  She  played  the  viola  da  gamba  at  his  con- 
certs ;  she  sang  the  old  songs ;  she  taught  the  girls 
who  came  to  the  concerts  how  to  sing  the  madrigals, 
and  in  the  evenings  she*  put  aside  the  subject  of  her 
thoughts  or  her  book,  and  gave  him  her  attention. 
These  hours  were  the  hardest,  for  she  had  lost  all 
interest  in  art  for  art's  sake.  She  sometimes 
laughed  in  her  weariness,  pretending  to  herself  that 
she  was  not  certain  she  hated  sin  as  much  as  she 
hated  this  pattern  music;  sin  was  human,  at  least, 
but  the  musical  arabesques  of  the  sixteenth  and 
seventeenth  centuries  seemed  to  her  to  be  divorced 
from  all  humanity.  She  often  wondered  if  her 
father  noticed  that  Bach  irritated  her,  and  she  was 
full  of  remorse  when  he  took  the  music  away  from 
her,  and  she  implored  to  be  allowed  to  play  it  again. 

She  would  not  have  been  able  to  persevere  in  the 
life  at  Dulwich  had  it  not  been  for  the  three  days 
she  spent  in  the  convent  every  week  from  Saturday 


38  '  SISTER    TERESA 

until  late  on  Monday,  and  every  Monday  it  be- 
came more  difficult  to  return  to  the  artistic  routine 
of  Dowlands.  The  time  was  doubtless  near  when 
she  would  not  be  able  to  do  so  any  longer,  but  she 
could  discover  no  reason  for  going  back  to  her  flat 
until  the  nuns  lost  a  further  sum  of  money  in  Aus- 
tralian securities  and  the  mortgagees  threatened 
foreclosure.  Then  it  became '  clear  that  to  be  of 
valid  help  to  the  nuns  she  must  return  to  the  stage. 
She  thought  of  a  concert  tour  in  England  or 
America,  and  was  surprised  to  find  herself  looking 
forward  to  this  tour  with  interest,  and  when  she  re- 
turned to  her  flat  she  sent  for  her  agent.  He  could 
not  help  regretting  tliat  she  was  not  returning  to 
the  stage.  But  the  idea  of  the  American  tour  filled 
him  with  enthusiasm,  and  next  morning  he  sent  her 
a  large  parcel  of  music.  She  cut  the  string  and 
placed  the  "  Messiah"  on  the  piano,  and  played  it 
for  about  an  hour.  She  could  see  that  it  was  very 
beautiful,  she  could  see  that,  but  it  did  not  interest 
her.  Her  conversation  had  not  influenced  her  artis- 
tic taste.  She  took  out  another  score;  this  time  it 
was  "  Elijah,"  and  Mendelssohn  appealed  to  her 
even  less  than  Handel.  She  turned  to  a  modern 
score  and  discovered  in  it  all  the  original  ingre- 
dients hashed  up  and  kneaded  into  new  forms. 
Then  she  took  a  score  by  Brahms  from  the  heap. 
"  In  Handel  there  are  beautiful  proportions,"  she 
said ;  "  it  is  beautiful,  like  eighteenth-century 
architecture,  but  here  I  can  discover  neither  pro- 


*    SISTER    TERESA  39 

portion  nor  design."  She  remembered  that  Caesar 
Franks'  music  affected  her  in  much  the  same  way. 
Shrugging  her  shoulders,  she  said,  "  When  I  listen 
I  always  hear  something  beautiful,  only  I  don't 
listen." 


IV 

EvEKY  morning  she  said,  "  I^ow  I  will  get  up 
and  begin.  The  moment  I  begin  I  shall  feel  inter- 
ested in  what  I  am  doing,  whereas,  if  I  sit  by  the 
€re  doing  nothing,  I  shall  be  mad  with  melancholy 
before  dinner-time."  Bnt  she  remained  reading 
her  paper,  and  when  she  rose  to  her  feet  she  passed 
the  piano  and  stood  by  the  window,  hoping  for  a 
visitor.  At  that  moment  anyone  would  have  been 
welcome,  and  full  of  contempt  for  her  weakness  she 
yielded  to  the  temptation  which  the  artist  spends 
his  life  in  fighting — the  temptation  to  go  and  talk 
to  someone.  She  thought  which  of  her  friends  she 
could  go  to  see — Louise?  She  had  been  twice  to 
see  Louise  that  week,  so  she  went  to  Dulwich,  but 
her  father  was  always  busy,  and  feeling  like  a  crimi- 
nal, she  stopped  at  St.  Joseph's.  She  had  nothing 
to  confess  but  idleness,  and  vowing  to  mend  her 
life,  returned  home.  She  returned  home  to  sit  all 
the  morning  recalling  her  vows,  painfully  con- 
scious of  the  presence  of  her  piano.  At  twelve 
o'clock  she  thought  she  was  going  to  study,  but  she 
opened  instead  the  score  of  "  Fidelio ;"  when  it 
had  been  looked  through  she  opened  "  Tannhauser," 

and  read  Elizabeth's  music  as  a  wanderer  reads  a 
40 


SISTER    TERESA  41 

well-known  landscape — the  hills  and  the  village 
street  he  knew  when  he  was  a  child.  The  wanderer 
passes  on,  and  Evelyn  closed  the  score  with  a  sigh, 
and  stood  a  long  while  looking  into  the  street,  think- 
ing of  nothing  definitely — that  some  of  these  scores 
^vere  beautiful,  that  some  were  ugly,  that  none 
meant  anything  to  her.  Her  thoughts  grew  more 
explicit,  and  she  felt  that  she  could  only  do  things 
from  impulse  and  to  please  herself.  But  how  would 
she  make  her  agent  understand  that  the  thinking 
out  a  scheme  whereby  a  poor  widow  might  be  sent 
to  a  convalescent  home,  and  a  situation  found  for 
her  daughter,  interested  her  far  more  than  the  sing- 
ing of  all  these  modern  religiosities  ?  Her  agent 
would  never  understand,  and  to  attempt  any  ex- 
planation would  be  waste  of  time.  Still,  she  was 
glad  he  was  coming,  and  so  worn  out  was  she  with 
loneliness  that  she  asked  him  to  stay  to  tea.  When 
he  left  she  looked  round  the  room,  wondering  what 
she  was  going  to  do.  Her  dinner  would  not  be 
ready  for  at  least  two  hours,  and  it  seemed  that  she 
could  not  stay  in  the  house.  Whom  should  she  go 
to  see — Louise  ?  Louise  disliked  religion  and  she 
looked  upon  nuns  as  fools,  and  an  argument  with 
Louise  troubled  and  perplexed  Evelyn  without 
changing  her.  So  she  went  instead  to  see  a  philan- 
thropic woman  who  lived  in  her  neighborhood. 
This  woman  was  an  excellent  journalist  and  could 
have  earned  a  considerable  income  if  she  had  been 
able  to  put  her  own  wants  before  the  wants  of  others. 


42  SISTEK    TEKESA 

Evelyn  was  always  touched  by  her  simple  disinter- 
estedness. She  had  had  six  callers  that  morning 
and  had  not  been  able  to  do  any  work.  There  was 
the  woman  from  the  workhouse  who  wanted  a  little 
tea  and  sugar;  there  was  the  woman  who  wanted 
a  coal-ticket,  and  there  was  the  woman  who  wanted 
to  be  advised — her  husband  had  just  been  sent  to 
gaol,  and  she  had  three  children  dependent  upon 
her. 

"  And  what  did  you  do  V 

"  I  had  to  think  out  the  circumstances  of  each 
case,  and  see  what  could  be  done." 

"  But  that  is  just  what  I  cannot  do.  I  can  spare 
the  money,  I  can  give  it,  but  I  cannot  think  out  a 
plan  as  you  can  to  start  them  afresh." 

"  It  should  be  easy  for  one  who  can  think  out  the 
gestures,  the  intonations  of  voice  of  Isolde  and 
Elsa,  to  design  a  new  career  for  Patrick  Sullivan, 
who  has  been  turned  into  the  street  with  his  five 
children  because  he  cannot  pay  his  rent." 

At  that  moment  it  seemed  to  her  that  she  was 
good  for  nothing  except  the  singing  of  operas  and 
being  Owen  Asher's  mistress.  She  could  not  learn 
the  oratorios,  and  she  could  not  think  out  careers 
for  the  many  Patrick  SuUivans  who  would  present 
themselves.  If  she  could  only  find  something  to 
do  which  she  could  do,  and  which  seemed  to  her  to 
be  worth  doing.  There  was  a  root  of  some  good  in 
her.  She  had  not  known  till  now  that  this  root  was 
in  her.     She  did  not  know  how  she  could  cultivate 


SISTER    TERESA  43 

it;  but  if  she  could  separate  herself  from  her  old 
circumstances  she  thought  it  might  grow. 

She  went  home  to  her  lonely  dinner,  to  a  few  let- 
ters to  write,  and  to  a  book  to  read,  and  it  seemed 
as  if  every  day  would  be  the  same  as  the  last.  But 
next  day  as  she  was  turning  over  some  old  clothes 
to  send  to  her  philanthropic  friend  for  her  poor 
people,  Ulick  walked  into  the  room.  Merat  had 
suddenly  announced  him,  and  she  had  not  had  time 
to  thrust  the  bundle  under  the  table.  He  was,  how- 
ever, too  much  absorbed  in  the  pleasure  of  seeing 
her  to  notice  it. 

This  was  the  first  meeting  for  many  months.  It 
was  their  first  meeting  since  she  had  written  to  him 
saying  he  was  not  to  come  and  see  her.  She  wished 
to  hear  what  his  life  had  been  in  France — what 
music  he  had  written,  and  he  wished  to  know  what 
encouragement  and  help  the  Church  had  been  to 
her,  and  what  music  she  had  been  singing.  Eor  her 
father  had  only  mentioned  that  he  thought  she  was 
going  to  sing  oratorios.  But  before  they  could  talk 
of  music,  they  would  have  to  talk  of  themselves. 
She  wanted  to  know  if  he  still  loved  her,  and  she 
hoped  he  did  not  love  her  in  a  way  that  would  pre- 
vent their  being  friends;  and  so  intent  was  she  to 
know  this  that  she  did  not  hear  what  he  was  saying 
about  the  colourlessness  of  English  music  and  its 
want  of  background. 

"  It  is  very  good  of  you  to  come  to  see  me,"  she 
said.     "  I'm  very  glad  youVe  come.     This  appears 


44  SISTER    TERESA 

very  inconsistent,  does  it  not,  after  the  letter  I 
wrote  to  you  ?" 

She  no  longer  felt  as  she  did  when  she  had  last 
written  to  him,  and  he  asked  her  if  she  wanted  to 
return  to  the  stage,  and  if  she  still  held  to  Cathol- 
icism. She  laughed  at  the  question,  so  impossible 
did  it  seem  to  her  that  she  could  ever  be  anything 
else  but  a  Catholic  again.  She  could  see  that  he 
was  a  little  puzzled,  and  then  she  told  him  how 
much  it  had  cost  her  in  loneliness  to  send  him 
away. 

"  We  must  live  according  to  our  ideas,"  he  said, 
"  and  it  is  by  living  for  our  ideas,  and  by  suffering 
for  our  ideas,  that  we  raise  ourselves  above  our  ani- 
mal nature.  I  was  not  angry  with  you  for  your 
letter.  It  proved  to  me  that  there  was  a  deeper 
nature  in  you  than  that  of  the  mere  singer." 

These  were  the  first  words  of  sympathy  that  had 
been  spoken  to  her  since  she  had  altered  her  life, 
and  she  was  deeply  touched.  She  told  him  she 
feared  she  had  little  aptitude  for  parochial  work. 
She  was  not  of  much  use  to  the  poor.  It  was  the 
poor  who  were  of  use  to  her.  It  was  the  poor  who 
helped  her  to  live.  He  said  he  understood,  and  he 
told  her  how  he  had  given  up  writing  a  certain  kind 
of  music,  because  a  schism  in  a  certain  hermetic 
society  to  which  he  belonged  had  scattered  his  audi- 
ence. 

"  We  all  require,"  he  said,  "  a  group  of  people 
in  whom  we  are  in  sympathy ;  we  require  our  ideas 


SISTER    TERESA  45 

about  us,"  and  tlie  little  anecdote  told  her  how  well 
they  understood  each  other. 

He  saw  that  she  stood  in  need  of  a  friend,  and 
she  felt  that  her  life  would  be  lonely  without  one 
influence.  His  spiritual  ideas  interested  her,  and 
through  their  ideas  they  became  extraordinarily 
intimate.  Each  visit  was  looked  forward  to,  and 
she  often  went  to  meet  him  in  the  Park  by  ap- 
pointment, and  walking  by  the  Serpentine  in  the 
evening  they  spoke  of  the  life  of  the  body,  which 
he  believed  to  be  an  incident  in  the  development 
of  the  eternal  soul.  His  creed,  that  God  is  every- 
where, especially  in  the  twilight  which  gathered  in 
the  great  trees,  did  not  seem  to  conflict,  though  he 
said  it  did,  with  her  belief  in  the  sacrament,  and  he 
told  her  she  had  only  to  listen  to  the  silence  in  her 
own  heart  to  hear  God.  The  spire  of  Kensington 
Church  shot  up  above  the  trees,  touching  the  very 
heart  of  the  sunset;  and  he  deprecated  a  feeble 
human  ritual,  exalting  the  ritual  of  nature  above  it. 
He  asked  why  man  should  seek  God  in  scrolls 
rather  than  in  the  sky  above,  and  the  earth  under 
our  feet,  and  why  a  foreign  land  should  be  more 
sacred  than  the  earth  underfoot.  He  spoke  more 
excitedly  than  he  had  spoken  before.  He  said  that 
her  heart  would  grow  grey  and  that  God  would  de- 
sert her  in  the  cloister,  and  when  she  asked  him 
what  he  thought  would  become  of  her,  if  he  thought 
she  would  become  a  nun,  he  said, — 

"  Only  marriage  can  save  you  from  the  cloister. 


46  SISTEK    TEKESA 

You  have  liked  me,  you  seem  to  like  me  still ;   will 
you  marry  me  ?'' 

He  waited  a  moment  for  her  to  answer,  and  then 
said, — 

"  We  must  go  away  to-night,  so  that  there  may  be 
no  turning  back.  You  must  meet  me  at  nine 
o^clock  at  the  railway  station — we  will  go  to 
Dulwich." 

"To-night!" 

As  they  walked  back  through  the  chill  spring 
twilight  he  questioned  her  closely.  She  had  been 
falling  in  love  with  him  again,  and  was  feeling 
lonely,  miserable,  and  what  was  worse,  she  thought, 
very  weak.  She  had  to  admit  that  her  life  was 
lonely — unbearably  lonely  he  said  it  must  be — and 
he  admired  her  strength  of  character.  That  she  had 
given  up  a  great  deal  for  her  ideas  did  not  impress 
him  so  much  as  the  fact  that  she  was  living  for  her 
ideas.  "But  what  is  the  use,"  she  thought,  "in 
having  suffered  if  I  am  to  break  down  ?"  She  could 
see  that  he  sought  to  overrule  her  will  with  his.  He 
said  she  must  promise  to  go  away  with  him  that  very 
night.  That  promise  she  could  not  give.  If  she 
were  to  marry  him  her  life  would  be  lived  among 
artists  and  musicians.  She  would  be  brought  back 
to  all  that  she  had  renounced,  l^o,  she  would  not 
go  away  with  him,  she  said,  as  she  went  upstairs 
to  her  room ;  and  she  crossed  the  room  certain  that 
she  had  arrived  at  an  irrevocable  decision.  Some 
time  passed,  and  as  she  went  to  get  a  book  from  the 


SISTEK    TEKESA  47 

bookcase,  she  remembered,  and  with  extraordi- 
nary intensity,  that  marriage  would  give  her  a  hold 
upon  life,  and  that  was  what  she  wanted.  She 
could  not  continue  to  live  her  present  life.  She  was 
certain  of  that.  Her  life  seemed  like  a  difficult 
equation;  and  after  dinner,  in  spite  of  the  meal, 
her  consciousness  increased  until  she  seemed  to  be 
trembling  in  her  very  entrails. 

"  In  half  an  hour  I  shall  have  to  put  on  my  hat 
— in  twenty  minutes — in  fifteen  minutes — in  ten 
minutes  I  shall  have  to  go.'^ 

The  fire  began  to  burn  up,  and,  worn  out  with 
thinking,  her  eyes  closed  and  her  brain  beat  like  a 
pulse.  She  started  in  her  chair  twice,  and  saw  the 
fire  burning  very  red.  Then  her  eyes  closed  a  third 
time,  and  she  dreamed  she  was  in  a  stable  where 
there  was  a  savage  horse.  So  long  as  the  groom 
remained  the  horse  could  not  attack  her;  but  sud- 
denly the  groom  slipped  out  of  the  stable,  and  in- 
stantly the  horse  seized  her  by  the  sleeve  and  held 
her  as  a  dog  might,  only  with  twenty  times  the 
power.  The  stable  was  divided  by  a  wooden  parti- 
tion, in  which  there  was  a  door,  and  it  was  her  ob- 
ject to  get  behind  the  door  and  close  it,  but  the 
horse  held  her  firmly  on  the  threshold.  It  seemed 
to  her  that  the  groom  had  left  her  to  be  done  to 
death  by  the  horse,  to  be  trampled  and  torn  by  it, 
and  she  was  unable  to  imagine  any  reason  why  he 
should  have  done  this.  But  she  saw  it  was  cleverly 
planned,  for  her  death  could  not  be  attributed  to 


48  SISTER    TERESA 

him ;  it  would  be  said  that  she  had  foolishly  strayed 
into  the  stable  after  he  had  left. 

Her  eyes  opened,  and  she  sat  in  a  sort  of  obtuse 
consciousness,  afraid  to  move,  looking  into  the  red 
glow;  and  she  did  not  stir,  though  the  fire  was 
burning  her  legs,  until  Merat  came  to  ask  her  if 
she  had  any  letters  for  the  post. 

'^  Well,  Merat,"  Evelyn  said,  "  I  wonder  what 
will  be  the  end  of  it  all.  Shall  I  end  my  days  in  a 
convent  ?  What  do  you  think,  Merat,  you  say  you 
know  me  so  well  ?" 

^^  I  think  mademoiselle  will  go  into  the  convent, 
but  I  do  not  think  she  will  stay  in  it." 

"  Another  failure,  that  would  be  worst  of  all.  If 
I  once  went  into  a  convent,  why  should  I  leave  it? 
What  do  you  think  would  have  power  to  draw  me 
out  of  it  ?" 

Leaning  against  the  mantelpiece,  Merat  stood 
looking  at  her  mistress  as  at  an  idol.  These  little 
chats  were  her  recompense  for  the  sacrifices  she  had 
made  so  that  she  might  remain  in  Evelyn's  service. 

"  A  cousin  of  mine,  mademoiselle,  is  going  to 
be  professed  to-morrow — would  you  like  to  see  her 
take  the  veil  ?" 

Merat  described  her  cousin's  people  as  well-to-do 
trades-people  in  a  midland  town.  Their  business 
prospered,  and  there  was  a  nice  garden  at  the  back 
of  their  house,  full  of  lilac  bushes,  and  on  Sunday 
there  was  always  supper,  and  the  young  men  stayed 
to  supper.     The  mother  being  French,  the  children 


SISTEK    TERESA  49 

spoke  French  and  English.  Julia  played  the  piano 
and  Emily  sang.  During  Merat's  profuse  descrip- 
tions Evelyn  thought  not  of  Julia  and  Emily,  but 
of  Sophie,  who  had  decided  to  become  a  Carmelite 
nun  ?  Why  a  Carmelite  nun  ?  In  her  own  words, 
because  if  she  were  to  become  a  nun,  she  would 
like  a  severe  order.  She  would  like  her  life  to  be 
as  different  from  the  life  of  the  world  as  possible. 
Why  did  she  want  this?  No  one  knew — she  did 
not  know  herself.  But  she  wanted  this  thing  above 
all  other  things.  She  had  always  been  a  pious  girl, 
but  not  more  pious  than  her  pious  brothers  and 
sisters.  She  used  to  romp  in  the  garden  on  Sun- 
day evenings  with  the  young  men.  One  of  the 
young  men  had*  asked  her  to  marry  him.  She  had 
hesitated  at  first  and  then  she  had  refused.  Her 
father  had  asked  her  to  wait  for  two  years,  and 
she  had  waited.  Young  men  had  come  to  supper 
and  she  had  walked  with  them  in  the  garden,  and 
her  voice  had  been  heard  laughing.  Her  sisters 
had  married,  and  everyone  had  expected  that  she 
would  marry.  But  when  the  two  years  her  father 
had  asked  for  were  over  she  had  told  him  that  she 
had  not  changed.  She  wished  as  much  as  ever  to 
be  a  Carmelite  nun. 


Spring  was  breaking  out  in  the  streets — soft 
white  clouds  floated  at  the  end  of  every  street,  and 
they  drove  past  green  squares.  The  convent  was 
in  a  distant  suburb,  and  during  the  drive  there 
Evelyn  hardly  spoke.  She  was  far  more  interested 
in  her  own  thoughts  than  in  Merat's  gossip,  and, 
seeing  the  sparrows  carrying  straws  into  the  bud' 
ding  trees,  she  thought  of  the  girl  whose  destiny 
had  been  revealed  to  her  at  eighteen,  and  who  had 
surrendered  life  without  a  sigh,  perhaps  gladly. 

And,  seeing  lilacs  in  the  convent  courtyard,  Eve- 
lyn wondered  if  the  little  sister  who  had  opened  the 
door  to  them  would  understand  any  part  of  what 
she  was  thinking  if  she  were  to  tell  her,  or  if  the 
cloister  had  blotted  out  her  human  heart. 

When  they  entered  the  church  the  candles  were 
being  lighted,  and  on  the  right  of  the  altar  there 
was  an  open  archway  railed  off  by  high  rails.  The 
pews  were  beginning  to  fill,  and  while  they  waited 
Evejyn  thought,  "  So  a  girl  is  going  to  renounce 
the  life  of  the  animal — the  individual  life,  the  life 
of  conflict.  She  is  led  to  this,  not  by  instinct,  for 
she  renounces  the  instinctive  life;  not  by  the  light 
of  wisdom,  for  she  has  no  wisdom !" 

There  came  a  sound  of  chanting,  and  looking  up 
50 


SISTER    TERESA  51 

they  saw  the  priests  and  acolvtes  pass  in  by  a  side 
door;  and  at  the  same  moment,  and  by  the  same 
door  by  which  Merat  and  Evelyn  had  come  into  the 
church,  the  bride  came  out  of  the  sunlight  into  the 
smell  of  the  incense — a  healthy-looking  girl  with 
flushed  cheeks,  leaning  on  her  father's  arm,  and 
Evelyn  thought  of  Christ  as  of  a  tender  lover  wait- 
ing to  receive  his  bride.  Behind  her  followed  her 
mother,  and  her  brothers  and  sisters,  and  they  sat 
on  some  scattered  chairs  on  either  side,  while  the 
bride,  without  visible  bridegroom,  knelt  before  the 
altar.  Evelyn  heard  the  voice  of  the  priest  intone 
the  Veni  Creator^  and  the  response  came  from  the 
nuns  in  thin,  quavering  notes;  so  inexpressibly 
dreary  was  the  intonation,  so  like  the  strewing  of 
ashes,  that  it  seemed  to  her  that  her  way  must  be 
with  the  sun  and  the  lilacs  rather  than  in  the  dim 
church,  sickly  with  incense. 

The  ritual  proceeded  for  a  while,  and  then  Eve- 
lyn followed  the  procession.  She  was  so  blinded 
by  excitement  that  she  could  not  observe  anything, 
and  it  merely  seemed  to  her  that  many  carried 
tapers  in  their  hands,  and  that  there  were  acolytes 
and  priests.  She  longed  to  ask  what  would  happen 
next,  but  did  not  dare,  so  intense  was  the  moment. 
The  procession  passed  down  the  aisle  and  into  the 
courtyard.  The  doors  were  wide  open,  and  the  pro- 
cession passed  through  them  into  the  garden,  and 
Evelyn  saw  the  cloaked  nuns  holding  tapers,  and, 
in  the  doorway,  the  Prioress,  tall  and  graceful,  bend- 


52  SISTER    TERESA 

ing  like  a  mother  over  the  bride  kneeling  at  her  feet, 
begging  for  admission.  The  bride's  father  and 
mother,  her  brothers  and  her  sisters,  pressed  for- 
ward to  kiss  her  for  the  last  time,  and  all  that  re- 
mained of  Owen  Asher  in  Evelyn  rose  in  revolt, 
she  wished,  in  spite  of  her  reason,  to  snatch  the  girl 
from  God  and  give  her  back  to  life.  Amid  the 
laburnums  and  the  lilac,  in  the  heat  of  this  volup- 
tuous day,  the  immolation  seemed  to  be  pitiful,  too 
awful  to  be  borne. 

"  I  must  see  her,"  Evelyn  said ;  ^'  she  will  be 
able  to  tell  me  the  secret  of  her  great  discovery  and 
how  she  came  to  make  it.'' 

She  followed  Merat  through  a  side  door,  and 
through  various  passages  until  they  came  to  a  bare 
room,  and  at  the  end  of  the  room  she  saw  merely 
an  iron  grating,  and  behind  it  a  Carmelite  nun. 
She  pressed  forward,  eager  to  ask  her  why  she  had 
done  this,  to  ask  what  circumstances  in  her  life  had 
driven  her  to  do  this,  but  the  rush  of  questions 
escaped  with  her  breath,  for  the  middle-class  girl 
had  disappeared,  and  in  her  place  she  saw  a  being, 
seemingly  more  spiritual  than  human.  There  were 
traces  of  tears  drying  on  the  girl's  hot  cheeks,  and 
her  look  seemed  to  enfold  Evelyn  in  its  sanctifica- 
tion,  and  it  followed  her  when  she  drove  home  in  the 
hansom — and  she  saw  nothing  of  the  world  around 
her.  All  the  links  in  the  chain  seemed  broken — 
centuries  seemed  to  have  passed,  and  when  she  en- 
tered her  room  she  sat  down,  unable  to  speak,  lost 


SISTER    TEBESA  63 

in  the  contemplation  of  something  great  and  noble. 
All  the  familiar  objects  in  the  room  seemed  strange 
and  unreal,  yet  she  was  clearer  in  her  mind  than 
she  had  ever  felt  before,  and  she  seemed  to  see 
through  life  for  the  first  time,  and,  seeing  it,  she 
cared  nothing  for  it. 

She  stood  like  one  alone  on  an  empty  island, 
seeing  the  house-lined  shores  from  a  distance,  and 
she  did  not  awake  from  her  dream  till  the  door 
opened. 

She  wore  a  maroon-coloured  dress,  and  her  figure 
looked  very  slight  in  it.  She  had  grown  thinner, 
and  her  arms  were  slender  in  the  tight  sleeves ;  white 
lace  fell  over  her  hands,  making  them  seem  fragile 
and  beautiful,  and  Ulick  read  in  her  pale,  nervous 
eyes,  that  she  would  be  led  far  from  him,  and  she 
read  misery  in  his  while  she  told  him  of  the  nervous 
irresolution  she  could  not  overcome,  but  she  had  to 
tell  him  why  she  had  not  gone  to  Victoria.  And 
as  she  told  him  of  her  terror,  and  of  the  sudden 
sleepiness  which  had  fallen  upon  her,  she  watched 
his  eyes  for  any  trace  of  anger  that  might  appear  in 
them.  But  they  only  reflected  the  pain  in  his  heart 
— the  pain  which  he  felt  for  her. 

He  was  dressed  in  the  tweed  suit  which  he  wore 
from  the  beginning  of  the  year  to  its  end,  a  loose, 
well-worn  cravat  floated  about  his  throat,  but  his 
simple  dignity  made  Owen's  artificial  dignities 
seem  small  and  almost  mean  in  her  present  eyes. 
His  hair  was  tossed  over  his  forehead,  and  she  liked 


54  SISTEK    TERESA 

it  as  he  wore  it.  She  liked  everything  about  him, 
even  his  clumsy  boots,  for  the  idea  he  represented 
was  so  much  greater  than  any  externals  could  be. 
His  clothes  seemed  but  a  little  shadow.  The  pict- 
ure was  all  sky — the  quiet  of  the  sky  and  the  wist- 
fulness  of  the  sky  at  evening;  the  sorrow  and  the 
pity  and  the  immortality  of  the  sky  were  reflectec^ 
in  his  eyes,  at  least  they  were  for  her ;  and  when  she 
told  him  how  the  sublime  act  she  had  witnessed  that 
morning  had  impressed  her,  he  listened  to  her  with 
a  pity  for  her  in  his  eyes  that  nearly  broke  her 
down.  He  seemed  to  her  like  some  woodland  creat- 
ure who,  hearing  monks  chanting  in  his  woodland^ 
divines  in  some  half -conscious  way  that  an  idea  in 
which  he  has  no  part  has  come  into  the  world. 


VI 

The  portress's  pretty  smile  seemed  less  cheerful 
than  usual,  and  as  soon  as  Mother  Philippa  came 
into  the  parlour  Evelyn  divined  a  serious  money 
trouble. 

"  But  what  is  the  matter,  Mother  Philippa  ?  You 
must  tell  me  about  it.    I  can  see  there  is  trouble." 

"  Well,  my  dear,  to  tell  you  the  truth  we  have  no 
money  at  all." 

"  At  all !    You  must  have  some  money." 

"  No ;  we  have  none.  And  Mother  Prioress  is 
so  determined  not  to  get  into  debt  that  she  will  not 
let  us  order  anything  from  the  tradespeople,  and  we 
have  to  manage  with  what  we  have  got  in  the  con- 
vent. Of  course  there  are  some  vegetables  and  some 
flour  in  the  house.  But  we  can't  go  on  long  like 
this.  We  don't  mind  so  much  for  ourselves,  but  we 
are  so  anxious  about  Mother  Prioress;  you  know 
how  weak  her  heart  is,  and  all  this  anxiety  may  kill 
her.  Then  there  are  the  invalid  sisters  who  ought  to 
have  fresh  meat." 

Evelyn  thought  of  driving  to  the  Wimbledon 
butcher  and  bringing  back  some  joints. 

"  But,  Mother,  why  did  you  not  let  me  know  be- 
fore ?    Of  course  I  will  help  you." 

66 


56  SISTER    TERESA 

"  The  worst  of  it  is,  Evelyn,  we  want  a  great  deal 
of  help." 

"  Well,  never  mind,  I'm  ready  to  give  you  a  great 
deal  of  help.  ...  As  much  as  I  can.  Ah,  here 
is  the  Reverend  Mother," 

The  door  had  opened,  and  the  Prioress  stood  rest- 
ing, leaning  on  the  door  handle.  Evelyn  was  by  her 
side  in  an  instant. 

"  Thank  you,  my  child,  thank  you." 

"  I  have  heard  of  your  trouble,  Mother.  I'm 
determined  to  help  you,  so  you  must  sit  down  and 
tell  me  all  about  it." 

"  Reverend  Mother  ought  not  to  be  about,"  said 
Mother  Philippa.  '^  On  Monday  night  she  was  so 
ill  that  we  had  to  get  up  to  pray  for  her." 

"  I*m  better  to-day." 

And  speaking,  Evelyn  thought,  very  slowly  and 
feebly,  the  Reverend  Mother  told  Evelyn  the 
amount  of  their  liabilities.  The  house  and  grounds 
had  been  mortgaged  for  twenty  thousand  pounds, 
and  when  the  interest  on  this  had  been  paid,  the 
margin  they  had  to  live  on  was  not  large,  and  this 
year  it  had  been  reduced  unexpectedly. 

As  she  was  about  to  explain  this  new  misfortune, 
she  paused  for  breath. 

"  Some  other  time,  dear  Mother,  you  will  tell  me 
the  details.  Xow  I  want  to  think  how  I  can  help 
you  out  of  your  difficulties." 

And  Evelyn  took  the  nun's  hand  and  looked  into 
the  tired,  wan  eyes,  and  she  understood  quite  well 


SISTER    TERESA  57 

how  this  woman,  so  firm  and  resourceful  in  her  own 
convent,  shrank  from  the  trouble  which  fate  had 
forced  upon  her  with  a  material  world,  eager  and 
merciless  in  its  greed,  and  anxious  to  acquire  valu- 
able property  regardless  of  the  sufferings  of  others. 
The  weight  of  debt  on  the  convent  surprised  her, 
but  she  hoped  her  face  had  shown  no  surprise.  She 
had  once  been  offered  a  large  sum  of  money  to  go  to 
America,  and  it  seemed  to  her  a  heroic  adventure 
to  go  there  to  sing  the  nuns  out 'of  debt.  But  to  do 
this  she  would  have  to  return  to  the  stage,  and  she 
would  if  she  could  overcome  herself;  and  in  her 
anxiety  to  cheer  the  two  elderly  and  helpless  women, 
who  seemed  to  have  become  oddly  enough  dependent 
upon  her,  she  thought  that  she  would  be  able  to.  To 
relieve  their  immediate  necessities  would  be  easy; 
she  would  send  them  twenty  pounds  at  once.  But 
how  to  cope  with  so  large  a  debt  she  had  not  the 
faintest  idea  at  the  time.  It  was  not  until  she  was 
on  her  way  back  to  London  that  the  idea  of  a  series 
of  concerts  in  several  large  towns,  beginning  in 
London  and  ending  in  Glasgow,  occurred  to  her. 
She  would  make  at  least  a  couple  of  thousand 
pounds  in  a  six  months'  tour,  and  this  sum  she 
would  give  to  the  nuns  to  hand  over  to  their  mort- 
gagees. The  nuns  were  paying  four  per  cent.^  so 
next  year  they  would  be  eighty  pounds  a  year  richer. 
It  could  not  be  that  some  Catholics  would  not  be 
found  to  subscribe;  once  an  example  is  set  it  is 
quickly  followed.     But  next  day  her  agent  told  her 


58  SISTEK    TEKESA 

he  could  not  hold  out  any  hope  to  her  of  a  successful 
tour  before  the  autumn ;  during  the  summer  months 
she  would  not  draw  half  as  much  money  as  she 
would  in  September  and  October.  He  thought  she 
could  not  do  better  than  sing  the  music  she  was 
famed  for.  .  .  .  London  was  more  ready  to  wel- 
come a  new  departure  than  the  provinces.  The 
provinces  were  conservative,  and  would  want  to  hear 
what  she  had  sung  in  London.  Her  agent  left  her 
to  discuss  the  matter  with  Ulick,  who  had  just  come 
in,  and  after  some  consultation  they  decided  to  go 
to  Dulwich  and  refer  the  matter  to  Mr.  Innes. 

Her  father  did  not  consider  whether  it  was  the 
sensual  or  the  religious  idea  which  had  led  her  back 
to  her  art.  He  merely  rejoiced  in  the  fact  that  she 
was  to  return  to  art.  He  began  to  compose  a  pro- 
gramme for  her — Wagner  and  the  sixteenth  and 
seventeenth  centuries.  The  provinces  had  not  yet 
heard  the  old  instruments,  and  he  felt  sure  they 
would  be  appreciated.  He  went  to  the  harpsichord 
and  asked  Evelyn  to  sing,  and  then  went  to  the 
piano,  and  she  sang  again.  He  appealed  to  IJlick, 
and  Ulick  agreed  with  him,  but  so  readily  did  he 
agree  with  her  father  that  Evelyn  guessed  he  was 
brooding  something.  He  stood  looking  into  space, 
or  sometimes  he  looked  at  her  with  a  sad,  pitying 
expression  which  troubled  her.  It  was  the  convent 
that  troubled  him.  He  would  have  her  return  to 
art  for  some  other  reason.  She  could  see  that  he 
was  hostile  to  the  conventual  idea,  and  she  won- 


SISTER    TERESA     .  59 

dered  why,  for  she  knew  no  one  more  truly  relig- 
ious than  he. 

She  had  expected  he  would  have  tried  to  dissuade 
her,  but  he  refrained,  and  when  she  told  him  of 
the  convent,  he  listened,  and  on  the  first  opportunity 
spoke  of  something  else,  and  she  was  touched  when 
he  said  as  he  bade  her  good-night, — 

"  You  will  want  an  accompanist ;  let  me  be  your 
accompanist;  it  will  save  you  a  great  deal  of 
money,  and  I  shall  be  helping  the  nuns  in  my 
own  way. 

The  mornings  were  henceforth  passed  at  the 
piano.  After  lunch  they  went  into  the  Park,  and 
they  talked  of  all  the  things  in  the  Park  in  the  late 
afternoons.  It  was  pretty  to  stray  through  the 
groves,  talking  alternately  of  art  and  religion.  At 
any  hour  of  the  day — even  if  you  were  to  wake 
Ulick  at  three  o'clock  in  the  morning,  he  would  not 
complain,  if  it  were  to  talk  of  art  or  metaphysics. 
He  would,  there  is  not  the  slightest  doubt,  sit  up  in 
bed,  and  after  rubbing  his  eyes,  begin  to  discuss 
Wagner's  meaning  regarding  the  Valkyrie,  or  the 
meaning  of  the  Druids  when  they  said  that  men  had 
made  the  world.  Evelyn  liked  to  watch  his  reveries 
and  hear  him  say  that  the  meaning  of  the  Druids' 
saying  that  man  had  made  the  world  out  of  his 
thoughts  was  that  he  had  invented  metaphysics  and 
the  mythologies.  As  they  walked,  love  of  him  awoke 
in  her  heart  when  he  explained  what  Father  Rail- 
ston  had  tried  to  explain.     The  priest  had  prosai- 


60  SISTER    TERESA 

cally  assured  her  that  she  should  not  expect  sensible 
belief  at  every  hour  of  the  day,  that  to  acquiesce  in 
all  the  teaching  of  the  Church  was  sufficient.  But 
Ulick  had  said  that  if  we  believe  in  the  moments 
when  our  life  reaches  its  highest  point,  that  is  to 
say,  in  the  moments  when  our  animal  nature  is  at 
wane,  it  should  matter  little  to  us  if  we  should  feel 
less  certain  about  God  in  our  ordinary,  passing  life. 
The  conversation  passed  on,  and  Ulick  told  her  that 
he  had  believed  in  one  God  in  childhood;  he  had 
once  believed  in  Jehovah,  and  about  this  great  God 
he  imagined  a  sort  of  pantheism.  Christ  had  not 
interested  him  at  that  time,  and  he  now  understood 
the  Son  as  a  concession  to  polytheism.  Man,  he 
said,  alternates  between  polytheism  and  mono- 
theism. 

"  And  the  Virgin,"  she  said,  "  is  another  conces- 
sion, and  the  canonised  saints  are  further  conces- 
sions, so  that  the  divine  idea  may  be  brought  within 
the  reach  of  simple  minds." 

It  was  July,  and  the  leaves  were  already  begin- 
ning to  grow  crisp,  and  a  yellow  tint  to  come  into 
the  green  ;   and  she  said, — 

'^  We  shall  never  know  each  other  better  than  we 
do  to-day ;  our  affection  can  do  nothing  but  de- 
cline." 

"  My  heart,  Evelyn,  is  like  a  mirror  in  which 
nothing  changes  and  nothing  passes." 

^'  But  I  am  spoiling  your  life ;  I  can  give  you 
nothing  for  your  love." 


SISTER    TERESA  61 

^*  You  give  me  all  my  inspiration — you  are  the 
source  of  all  of  it." 

"  I  beseech  you/'  he  said  after  a  long  silence,  "  do 
not  separate  yourself  from  me  because  you  think 
that.'' 

She  promised  him  she  would  not,  and  an  inde- 
finable sensation  of  joy  passed  into  their  hearts,  and 
it  lasted  while  they  looked  into  the  sunny  inter- 
spaces. 

She  feared  him  no  longer;  it  was  herself  she 
feared,  for  though  he  did  not  make  love  to  her  his 
gentleness  was  compelling  her,  and  she  repressed 
the  impulse  to  take  his  hand,  lest  to  do  so  should 
break  the  love  spell  of  those  long  summer  days. 
They  had  reached  the  summit  of  their  happiness, 
and  both  foresaw  the  day  when  they  would  have  to 
begin  the  descent. 


VII 

In"  their  long  strayings  by  the  Serpentine  she 
often  wondered  what  she  should  say  if  they  were 
to  meet  Owen.  He  would  pass  them  quickly,  with 
a  cynical  smile  on  his  lips  and  in  his  eyes,  for  he 
would  think  the  worst. 

Ulick  had  asked  her  if  he  might  accompany  her 
on  her  concert  tour,  but  she  had  refused,  feeling  she 
could  not  hold  out  against  his  tenderness  much 
longer.  The  moment  would  have  come  when  she 
would  have  thrown  herself  into  his  arms.  He  had 
not  tried  to  kiss  her  as  Owen  had  done  and  it  would 
have  been  easy  for  any  other  woman  to  have  seen 
him  every  day  without  danger,  but  she  was  dif- 
ferent. She  could  resist  once,  twice,  even  three 
times,  but  the  time  came  when  she  could  resist  no 
longer.  Love  with  her  was  like  one  of  those  poisons 
which  remain  in  the  body ;  it  is  not  the  actual  dose 
which  kills,  but  the  accumulation  of  doses,  and  she 
knew  that  men  had  again  become  a  feverish  curi- 
osity in  her. 

At  Edinburgh  the  larger  part  of  the  stalls  was 

taken  up  by  Lady  Ascott's  party.    Lady  Ascott  had 

had  a  large  house  party  at  Thornton  Grange,  and 

she  brought  all  her  friends  to  Edinburgh  to  hear 

Evelyn.     She  brought  many  of  the  county  people 
62 


SISTER    TERESA  63 

with  her,  and  after  the  concert  came  to  see  Evelyn. 
Evelyn  was  thinking  of  the  men  whom  she  heard 
talking  behind  her,  and  almost  independently  of 
her  will  she  turned  from  the  women  who  were  com- 
plimenting her  on  her  singing,  and  it  was  only  by 
an  effort  of  will  that  she  engaged  in  conversation 
with  Lady  Ascott  or  some  amiable  old  gentleman. 

The  temptation  pursued  her  and  kept  her  awake. 
She  lay  on  her  left  side,  seeing  in  the  darkness  the 
faces  she  had  seen  during  the  evening.  And  every 
day  the  danger  seemed  to  grow  more  threatening. 
She  would  have  abandoned  her  concert  tour  had  it 
not  been  for  the  nuns — for  their  sakes  she  was 
obliged  to  go  on  with  it.  Every  day  her  danger 
grew  more  imminent.  Lady  Ascott  asked  her  to 
Thornton  Grange,  and  after  all  Lady  Ascott  had 
done  to  make  her  Edinburgh  concert  a  success  she 
did  not  see  how  she  could  refuse  to  spend  the  in- 
terval between  the  Edinburgh  and  the  Glasgow  con- 
cert with  her. 

Thornton  Grange  was  thirty  miles  west  of  Edin- 
burgh, so  it  would  be  on  her  way  to  Glasgow,  and 
as  she  went  there  she  thought  of  the  people  she 
would  meet.  She  would  be  sure  to  meet  there  some 
of  the  men  whom  she  had  met  last  autumn  when  she 
lunched  with  Owen,  and  the  women  she  had  met 
there  too,  for  they  went  about  in  gangs.  She  knew 
what  the  party  would  be  like;  she  knew  it  all  be- 
fore it  began.  On  the  second  would  begin  an  ex- 
asperated desire  to  do  something  to  escape  from  the 


64  SISTER    TERESA 

tedium  of  leisure.  Everyone  would  be  divided  as 
if  the  Atlantic  divided  them,  even  when  they  lay  on 
each  other's  arms,  for  their  intimacies  were  merely 
physical.  Physical  intimacies  are  but  surface  emo- 
tions, forgotten  as  soon  as  they  are  satisfied,  whereas 
spiritual  intimacies  live  in  the  heart ;  they  are  part 
of  our  eternal  life  and  seem  to  reach  beyond  the 
stars. 

Then  why  was  she  going  to  Thornton  Grange? 
Because  it  was  difficult  to  refuse  Lady  Ascott's  in- 
vitation ?  Yes,  and  because  she  liked  to  go,  and 
because  she  was  drawn  there.  She  knew  these 
people  w^ould  weary  her;  she  despised  them.  She 
knew  that  they  knew  no  more  of  life  than  animals, 
but  these  thoTights  were  in  her  brain  merely.  She 
felt  she  had  lost  control  over  herself ;  her  brain  was 
on  fire,  and  outside  the  country  was  lit  up  by  swift 
lightnings. 

A  high  wind  had  been  blowing  all  day,  and  the 
storm  had  begun  in  the  dusk,  and  when  she  arrived 
at  the  station  the  coachman  could  hardly  get  his 
horses  to  face  the  rain  and  wind.  She  took  the 
storm  for  a  sign,  but  she  could  not  go  back  now, 
and  she  tried  to  think  of  something  else.  She  had 
heard  of  the  trees  in  the  Park,  and  she  peered 
through  the  wet  panes.  ^^  It  is  a  miserable  thing," 
she  thought,  "  to  linger  on  the  threshold ;  it  is  only 
the  daring  spirits  who  pass  across  and  close  the 
door."  But  she  put  these  thoughts  out  of  her  mind, 
and  for  the  first  time  yielded  to  the  temptation  to 


SISTER    TERESA  66 

think  of  the  men  she  was  going  to  meet  that  night 
at  dinner. 

"  How  are  you,  my  dear  Evelyn  ?  I  am  so  glad 
to  see  you;  you  will  find  some  friends  here,"  said 
Lady  Ascott,  who  had  come  forward  to  meet  her. 

They  were  on  the  threshold  of  the  shadowy  draw- 
ing-room, and  out  of  a  background  of  rich  pictures, 
china  vases,  books  in  little  inlaid  cases  on  marble 
consol  tables  on  which  stood  lamps  and  tall,  shaded 
candles,  Owen  came  forward  to  meet  her. 

'*  I  am  so  glad  to  see  you,  Evelyn ;  you  did  not 
expect  me.    You  are  not  sorry,  I  hope  ?" 

She  hardly  answered.  She  went  past  him  into 
the  drawing-room,  and  with  a  scared  look  sat  down 
by  herself  on  a  sofa  as  if  to  watch  the  card  players. 

Lady  Ascott  asked  Owen  what  he  thought  was 
the  matter  with  her.  He  shrugged  his  shoulders 
and  went  towards  Evelyn.  But  at  that  moment 
some  other  guests  arrived.  They  had  come  from  a 
different  station,  and  were  greeted  with  little  cries 
of  facetious  intimacy,  and  amidst  a  reiteration  of 
Christian  names,  they  narrated  their  journeys,  and 
their  narratives  were  chequered  with  the  names  of 
other  friends  who  had  been  staying  in  the  houses 
they  had  just  come  from.  It  seemed  to  Evelyn  that 
the  desire  of  these  people  was  to  pretend  to  be  all 
members  of  one  family.  Their  jokes  implied  an 
intimate  acquaintance  with  the  idiosyncrasies  of  a 
large  number  of  people,  and  it  seemed  that  they 
often  spoke  with  a  view  to  giving  prominence  to 


66  SISTER    TERESA 

this  fact.  They  knew  each  others'  intrigueSj  mer- 
cenary and  sensual,  and  each  others'  plans  for  the 
winter  months,  and  the  object  of  their  house  parties ; 
their  race  meetings  and  intrigues  were  vanity  and 
distraction.  Suddenly  Evelyn  heard  one  of  the 
women  say  of  a  poet  whose  acquaintance  she  had 
made  she  was  afraid  society  would  get  hold  of  him 
and  spoil  him.  "  She's  like  me,"  Evelyn  said  to 
herself ;  "  she  sees  through  it  all,  but  cannot  escape 
from  it.  I  run  a  little  way,  and  am  brought  back 
again." 

And  like  one  watching  a  revel,  she  sat  apart, 
hearing  the  tingling  of  the  temptation  in  her  flesh ; 
and  in  despair  she  went  up  to  her  room,  where 
Merat  was  waiting  to  dress  her  for  dinner.  As  she 
stood  before  the  glass  she  asked  herself  what  was 
the  meaning  that  lurked  in  the  dress  she  wore,  in 
the  wine  and  the  meats  which  awaited  them. 

These  people  did  not  meet  to  exchange  ideas. 
Everything — dress,  flowers,  wine,  food,  and  conver- 
sation were  but  pretexts  and  stimulants ;  the  pleas- 
ure of,  consciously  or  unconsciously,  sex  was  the 
object  of  this  party. 

It  was  Owen  who  took  her  in  to  dinner,  and  amid 
the  influence  of  food,  wine,  conversation,  and  the 
scent  of  the  flowers  the  combat  within  her  grew 
denser. 

After  dinner  the  card  players  withdrew,  and 
Owen  sat  beside  her  telling  how  this  meeting  had 
been  devised.     Her  manner  implied  acquiescence, 


SISTER    TERESA  OT 

and  when  she  was  asked  to  sing  she  walked  to  the 
piano  gravely  like  one  who  had  come  to  a  sudden 
decision.  She  sang  all  that  Owen  asked  her  to 
sing — that  song  in  which  lovers  sit  in  the  hot 
July  night,  under  the  moon,  among  flowers  that 
ilourislied  and  fell;  and  that  other  song  in  which 
desire  moves  mysteriously  like  wind  among  tall 
grasses  by  the  cliff's  edge,  and  nothing  else  is  heard 
but  the  vacant  pipe  of  the  shepherd. 

She  had  yielded  herself,  and  the  sensual  intoxica- 
tion  that  flowed  through  her  lips  thrilled  in  every 
one;  and  men  and  women  came  forward  together 
to  thank  her  for  the  pleasure  she  had  given.  She 
was  ready  to  sing  again,  but  Owen  excused  her,  and 
they  went  away  to  sit  in  the  scent  of  some  lilies 
drooping  in  a  great  china  vase  set  on  a  marquetry 
table  in  the  library. 

The  moment  had  come,  and  he  spoke  to  her  of 
love,  and  only  of  love,  and  his  conversation  alter- 
nated between  descriptions  of  love's  tenderest  whis- 
perings to  love's  violent  gratifications,  and  all  he 
said  was  interpenetrated  with  recollections  of  pas- 
sionate hours,  and  she  sat  listening,  not  daring  to 
speak,  her  nervous  eyes  alone  telling  him  of  the 
flame  he  was  blowing  up  in  her  heart.  Their  hands 
touched,  sometimes  their  knees,  and  she  was  borne, 
as  it  were,  out  of  her  reason. 

The  roar  of  the  wind  up  and  down  the  glen  was 
uncanny  to  listen  to;  it  moaned  in  the  chimneys 
and  threw  itself  against  the  house  in  swift  and  de- 


68  SISTER    TERESA 

termined  attacks.  Rain  was  dashed  against  the 
window-panes,  and  Owen  and  Evelyn  looked  at  each 
other  in  alarm.  He  spoke  of  the  high  pines,  for 
an  admission  of  his  desire  was  trembling  on  his 
lips.  In  spite  of  himself  he  spoke  of  the  love  affairs 
of  one  of  the  women  present,  and  in  spite  of  herself 
she  asked  him  which  woman  he  was  making  love 
to.  A  sudden  thickness  came  into  his  throat ;  their 
bodies  swayed  a  little,  they  might  have  fallen  into 
each  other's  arms  if  Lady  Ascott  had  not  come  upon 
them,  and  startled  out  of  her  mood,  Evelyn  looked 
up  and  saw  Lady  Ascott  standing  by  her. 

"  The  women  yonder  will  go  on  playing  cards  till 
one  o'clock  in  the  morning,  but  as  you  have  been 
travelling  I  thought  you  might  be  tired." 

Lady  Ascott  took  her  to  her  room  and  stood  talk- 
ing to  her  for  some  time,  and  Merat,  who  thought 
she  knew  every  trick  and  turn  of  her  mistress's 
mind,  had  already  guessed  that  she  had  given  Sir 
Owen  permission  to  visit  her,  and  no  shadow  of 
doubt  remained  when  Evelyn  said  she  would  not 
go  to  bed  yet ;  Merat  need  not  stay,  she  would  un- 
dress herself. 

When  the  maid  had  left  the  room  Evelyn  walked 
a  few  steps  forward,  and  then  leaned  against  the 
bed,  for  she  was  taken  in  a  sudden  terror  of  the 
inevitable.  She  felt  all  resistance  to  be  dead  in 
her;  she  was  helpless  as  one  enfolded  in  a  flame. 
Her  brain  would  not  think  for  her,  and  between 
desire  and  her  terror  of  it  questions  flashed.    "  What 


SISTER    TEEESA  69 

did  Lady  Ascott  mean — ^had  she  done  it  on  pur- 
pose? Would  Owen  come  to  her?  Did  he  know 
her  room?  After  all,  it  might  end  in  nothing." 
Her  hands  went  to  her  dress  to  unhook  it,  but  thej 
fell  tremblingly.  She  looked  towards  the  door  like 
one  waiting.  She  took  a  book  and  then  laid  it  aside, 
for  she  could  not  fix  her  thoughts,  and  she  sat  look- 
ing into  the  fire,  thinking  of  the  delight  it  would 
be  to  hear  the  handle  turn  in  the  door,  to  see  him 
pass  into  the  room.  The  moment  the  door  was 
closed  behind  him  he  would  take  her  in  his  arms 
and  hold  her,  both  speechless  with  desire. 

The  storm  had  abated  and  there  was  overhead  a 
large  clear  space  of  sky  through  which  the  moon 
was  whirling  brightly,  and  in  the  wind-tossed  land- 
scape she  seemed  to  see  her  own  soul,  and  the  vision 
was  so  clear  and  explicit  that  she  drew  the  curtains 
back  and  returned  to  the  fire  and  sat  looking  into  it, 
frightened,  like  one  who  has  seen  a  ghost. 

An  hour  later  she  heard  the  card  players  in  the 
passage.  They  went  to  their  rooms,  and  from  that 
time  there  was  no  sound  in  the  house,  only  the 
soughing  of  the  wind  in  the  trees  outside. 

She  loved  Owen  no  longer,  and  if  she  yielded,  an 
hour's  delight,  would  be  followed  by  a  miserable 
terror  and  despair  so  abject  that  she  might  kill  her- 
self. But  God  seemed  far  away,  and  as  she  lay 
staring  into  the  darkness  images  of  fierce  sensuality 
crowded  upon  her,  the  fever  that  consumed  her  was 
unendurable,  her  will  was  being  stolen  from  her, 


70  SISTER    TERESA 

aud  with  the  rape  of  her  will  her  flesh  hardened  and 
was  thnist  forward  in  burning  pulsations.  She  held 
her  breasts  in  both  hands,  and  bit  her  pillow  like 
a  neck,  and  her  reason  seemed  to  drift  and  sicken, 
and  her  body  was  her  whole  reality.  Once  more  she 
argued  it  out.  This  was  desire  separated  from  im- 
aginative passion  and  therefore  sin,  even  according 
to  ITlick's  code  of  ethics.  But  she  could  not  think; 
her  only  consciousness  was  of  the  burning  of  her 
blood  w^hich  Avould  not  let  her  lie  down.  She  got 
out  of  bed  and  she  tried  to  think  of  Ulick — of  any 
subject  that  might  distract  her  thoughts  from  Owen, 
lie  was  sleeping  but  a  few  yards  away,  and  her  door 
was  not  locked.  She  lay  down  again,  wearied  by 
this  hot  struggle  with  herself.  But  memories  arose, 
and  like  ghosts  they  passed  under  the  sheets  and 
lay  beside  her,  and  she  was  now  too  exhausted  to 
repulse  them. 

Then  her  eyes  closed,  and  she  lay  with  the  temp- 
tation in  her  arms,  its  breath  mixing  with  her 
breath.  It  lay  still,  like  a  child,  between  her  breasts, 
and  she  lay  afraid  to  move.  It  mastered  her  slowly. 
Opening  her  eyes  she  saw  Owen  in  his  room  Avait- 
ing  for  her.  The  anguish  of  the  struggle  was  nearly 
over,  and  a  sweet  ease  had  begun  in  her ;  and  raising 
herself  up  in  bed  she  paused  to  listen,  for  voices 
were  singing.  It  was  a  sad,  wailing  song;  she 
seemed  to  have  heard  it  before,  voices  singing  as 
they  walked  in  procession.  She  was  not  sure  whence 
the  voices  came — outside  or  within  the  house,  or  if 


SISTER    TERESA  It 

they  were  echoes  borne  from  afar  by  the  wind,  or 
if  they  were  in  her  own  brain.  The  voices  grew 
more  distinct,  and  she  recognised  the  hymn — the 
beautiful  Veni  Creator.  One  voice  was  clear  and 
true — to  whom  was  she  listening  ?  The  voices  grew 
louder,  they  seemed  to  come  nearer,  and  whether 
they  were  echoes  borne  on  the  wind,  or  memories 
singing  in  her  own  brain,  she  was  not  sure.  Soon 
the  room  was  filled  with  the  plain  chant,  and  then, 
almost  without  her  being  aware  of  any  transition, 
the  voices  seemed  to  grow  fainter,  suddenly,  and 
she  heard  them  in  the  far  distance.  She  sat  on 
her  bed  listening,  and  when  she  could  hear  them  no 
longer  the  hymn  continued  in  her  brain,  and  she 
could  not  tell  at  what  point  hallucination  ended 
and  memory  began. 

She  fell  back  on  her  pillow,  wondering,  and  hear- 
ing and  seeing  only  the  nuns,  her  lips  began  to 
whisper  prayers.  Suddenly  she  awoke.  It  was 
morning,  and  lying  between  dreams  and  waking 
thoughts  she  remembered  the  miraculous  midnight 
intervention  with  a  strange  distinctness.  She  could 
not  doubt  the  miracle,  and  was  overcome  by  the 
thought  of  the  great  danger  she  had  escaped;  she 
thanked  God  for  sending  the  nuns  to  help  her,  and 
she  realised  her  own  unworthiness.  She  understood 
tliat  her  summer  spent  in  the  Park  with  Ulick  had 
been  a  preparation  for  this  breakdown.  Their  long 
talks  under  the  trees,  their  long  musical  reveries  at 
the  piano,  and  this  concert  tour,  everything  had  led 


72  SISTER    TERESA 

her  to  this  disaster.  She  thought  of  the  music  she 
had  sung  last  night,  and  of  how  she  had  sung  it — 
of  the  house  she  was  staying  in,  and  of  its  inmates, 
and  she  resolved  to  leave  at  once.  She  must  aban- 
don what  remained  of  her  tour,  and  this  was  the 
sorest  part,  for  the  nuns  would  suffer  through  her 
sin.  But  her  first  business  was  to  purge  herself; 
she  must  destroy  this  terrible  sensual  beast  within 
her,  and  she  told  Merat  she  was  to  pack  her  things 
and  be  ready  to  leave  after  breakfast. 

And  amid  the  glitter  of  silver  dishes,  and  the 
savoury  odour  of  kidneys  and  omelettes,  amid  the 
elaborately-dressed  people  and  the  pomp  of  foot- 
men she  broke  the  news  to  Lady  Ascott. 

"  I  am  sorry,"  she  said,  "  but  I  am  obliged  to 
leave  to-day  by  an  early  train." 

"  Sir  Owen,  will  you  try  to  persuade  her  ?  Get 
her  some  omelette  and  I  will  get  her  coffee.  Which 
will  you  have,  dear,  tea  or  coffee  ?" 

There  was  no  train  till  mid-day,  and  she  could 
not  refuse  to  go  into  the  garden  with  Owen. 

"  You  are  not  leaving  ?" 

"  Do  not  let  us  go  through  it  all  again,  Owen." 

But  he  insisted,  and  reminding  her  of  her  last 
night's  mood — how  different  she  was  then — ^he  be- 
sought her  to  tell  him  what  had  happened. 

"  You  cannot  have  been  to  confession — you  did 
not  get  out  of  your  bed  and  run  to  a  priest,  did 
vou?" 

She  smiled;    they  walked  on  a  few  paces,  and 


SISTER    TERESA  73 

then  she  spoke  of  the  weather,  for  traces  of  last 
night's  storm  were  visible  everywhere — in  the  cold 
air,  and  in  the  long  chestnut  leaves  which  filled  the 
roadway. 

A  squirrel  cracked  a  nut  and  let  the  shells  fall. 
A  blackbird  whistled,  but  stopped  when  the  sun 
was  swallowed  up  in  great  clouds  again.  The  sweet 
peas  were  worn  by  the  wind,  the  sunflowers  hung, 
shabby  on  their  decaying  stalks,  and  out  of  a  faint 
odour  of  dying  mignonette  they  passed  through  the 
wicket  into  the  woods.  On  either  side  of  the  path- 
way two  robins  were  singing  their  rival  roundelays. 

"  But  where  are  you  going,  Evelyn  ?  You  are 
not  going  to  enter  the  convent  ?" 

"  I  am  determined,  Owen,  to  separate  myself 
from  those  whose  ideas  conflict  with  mine,  that  is 
all." 

"  But  that  is  everything." 

"  Yes,  it  is  everything,  Owen.  You  see  the  car- 
riage has  come.     Good-bye." 

They  walked  up  the  drive,  and  he  put  her  into 
the  carriage,  and  when  it  drove  away  he  turned 
and  stood  watching  the  waterfowl  swimming  in  the 
pool  below,  stealing  mysteriously  into  the  reeds 
when  the  guests  who  walked  on  the  lower  terrace 
approached  too  close. 

"  That  damned,  stupid  creed,  which  has  reduced 
half  Europe  to  decrepitude,  has  robbed  me  of  her," 
he  said,  as  they  sat  dowTi  to  lunch,  and  like  one 
unable  to  contain  himself  any  longer  he  told  the 


74  SISTER    TEKESA 

whole  story,  how  he  had  discovered  her  in  Dulwich 
and  had  taken  her  to  Paris  and  made  a  great  artist 
of  her.  For  a  moment  he  was  ridiculous,  but  when 
he  said,  "  A  time  comes  in  every  man's  life  when 
all  past  passions  are  as  nothing,  or  seem  to  collect 
into  one  supreme  passion,  which  can  never  change 
or  leave  him,"  his  words  awoke  an  echo  in  every 
heart. 

Someone  suggested  that  a  spiritual  message  had 
come  to  her  in  a  dream,  and  instances  were  given. 
Owen,  nervously  irascible,  denied  all  belief  in 
omens,  portents,  and  visions.  The  others  were 
not  so  incredulous,  and  they  got  up  from  the  table 
impressed,  and  anxious  for  the  moment  to  learn 
something  of  the  spiritual  life. 

"  It  is  all  very  interesting,"  someone  said,  ^'  so 
long  as  you  are  not  called  upon  to  practise  it ;"  and 
the  remark  sufficed  to  change  the  conversation, 
which  had  been  unduly  prolonged. 

Some  of  the  guests  were  taken  to  climb  the  cliffs 
which  commanded  an  extensive  view ;  others  walked 
through  the  woods,  and  they  counted  the  number  of 
trees  which  had  been  blown  down. 

Evelyn's  mysterious  departure  haunted  these 
pleasure-seekers,  and  beguiled  by  the  mystery 
which  had  collected  in  the  autumn  park,  they 
looked  into  the  shadows;  and  when  they  came  sud- 
denly upon  some  patient  cattle  standing  by  the 
hedge  side  they  were  obliged  to  stop,  and  they  gazed 
perplexed.    Unending  flights  of  rooks  came  through 


SISTER    TERESA  T5 

the  sky,  and  the  clamour  of  the  wings  in  the 
branches  was  part  of  the  mystery  too.  They  ques- 
tioned the  light  of  the  first  star,  and  the  elliptical 
flight  of  the  bats.  Owen,  when  he  went  up  to  his 
own  room  to  dress  for  dinner,  drew  the  curtain, 
and  with  a  strange  grief  in  his  heart  he  stood  look- 
ing out  on  the  moon-lit  world  and  on  the  strange 
silence  of  the  windless  night. 


VIII 

When  0,wen  left  Thornton  Grange  he  sent  a  tele- 
gram to  Harding  asking  him  to  dine  with  him  that 
night ;  and  sitting  alone  in  their  old-fashioned  club 
the  men  talked  of  their  sentimental  lives  till  nearly- 
midnight. 

"  At  the  bottom  of  your  heart  you  are  glad  you 
did  not  marry  her,"  Harding  said.  "  N'ature  has 
condemned  us  to  celibacy." 

"  So  you  have  often  said,  my  dear  fellow ;  but 
will  you  come  to  Egypt  with  me  at  the  end  of  the 
month  ?" 

The  man  of  letters  felt  that  his  life  was  not  with 
Owen,  and  Owen  sailed  from  Marseilles  alone,  re- 
solved to  seek  f orgetfulness  of  Evelyn  in  adventure. 
So  he  welcomed  the  storm  off  the  Algerian  coast 
which  began  his  adventures.  He  penetrated  with 
a  caravan  to  where  summer  is  stationary,  and  from 
well  to  well  of  brackish  water  to  Egypt,  metaphysi- 
cal and  monumental. 

His  first  attempt  in  water  colours  was  made  on 
the  Euphrates.  In  Japan  he  collected  some  ivories 
and  indifferent  prints,  and  visited  many  tea  houses. 
In  San  Francisco  he  nearly  proposed  to  a  beautiful 
American  girl,  and  in  "New  York  he  talked  so  con- 
tinuously of  Evelyn  to  a  Spanish  dancer  that  she 
76 


SISTER   TERESA  77 

left  him  for  a  young  man  with  a  less  brilliant 
past. 

A  week  after  his  rupture  with  the  Spaniard  he 
returned  home,  having  been  away  a  little  more  than 
a  year;  and  at  the  beginning  of  April  he  was  sit- 
ting in  his  house  in  Berkeley  Square,  perplexed 
as  to  how  to  employ  the  rest  of  his  life.  Men  and 
women,  he  reflected,  married  in  order  to  acquire 
duties.  They  did  not  know  that  was  the  reason, 
theirs  was  the  wisdom  of  the  ages,  and  from  the 
beginning  he  had  avoided  all  duties.  He  had  not 
married  because  he  desired  to  dedicate  his  life  to 
self-culture.  He  had  avoided  marriage  and  his  re- 
lations, and  had  swept  every  duty  aside  lest  it 
should  interfere  with  his  life.  He  had  nephews  and 
nieces,  but  he  did  not  even  know  their  names,  and 
he  had  asked  himself  if  he  should  bring  them  to 
live  with  him,  but  no  sooner  was  the  idea  conceived 
than  he  thrust  it  aside.  The  only  sacrifice  he  had 
allowed  to  come  between  him  and  the  world  was 
Evelyn ;  she  had  saved  him  from  himself,  and  that 
was  why  he  loved  her.  But  even  towards  Evelyn 
his  conduct  had  not  been  what  it  ought  to  have 
been ;  many  times  he  had  left  her  for  shooting  and 
hunting ;  of  course  he  could  not  be  with  her  always, 
but  when  he  went  to  the  bottom  of  things  he  had 
to  admit  to  himself  that  if  he  had  not  been  a  per- 
fect lover  it  was  because  he  could  not.  He  had 
been  as  kind  to  her  as  he  knew  how.  He  had  done 
his  best. 


78  SISTER    TERESA 

He  took  a  cigar  from  a  silver  box  which  Evelyn 
had  given  him;  he  possessed  a  few  other  relics, 
a  pocket  handkerchief,  a  pair  of  shoes  and  a  tortoise- 
shell  comb,  and  it  was  always  a  sad  but  tender 
pleasure  for  him  to  look  at  and  touch  these  things. 
In  his  secretaire,  in  a  pigeon-hole  on  the  right,  were 
her  letters,  and  one  day  he  counted  them  over  and 
found  there  were  exactly  two  hundred  and  ninety- 
three;  not  a  large  number  for  a  liaison  that  had 
lasted  for  six  years.  Xearly  three  hundred  she  had 
written  him,  and  he  had  written  her  many  more, 
and  this  correspondence,  amorous  and  artistic,  had 
been  one  of  the  special  pleasures  of  this  liaison.  He 
put  away  the  letters,  and  taking  another  cigarette 
he  sat  dreaming  of  the  dead  years,  his  eyes  fixed 
on  her  portrait.  It  had  become  the  familiar  spirit 
of  his  room,  and  in  this  room  he  was  never  lonely — 
the  Evelyn  that  dweU  in  his  heart  he  had  learnt  to 
think  of  as  an  immortal  delight  as  well  as  a  mortal 
woman,  and  this  idea  he  could  read  in  Manet's  pic- 
ture. 

The  grey  background,  in  which  a  casual  ray  of 
sunlight  awoke  tints  more  beautiful  than  in  any 
eighteenth-century  watered  silks,  delighted  the  eyes 
and  held  the  mind  prisoner;  and  out  of  all  this 
miraculous  grey  the  figure  seemed  to  have  arisen 
like  an  incantation,  seemed  to  have  grown  as  natu- 
rally as  a  rose  grows  among  its  leaves.  Out  of  a 
grey  tint  and  a  rose  tint  a  permanent  music  had 
been  made,  and  Owen  often  remembered  the  seem- 


SISTER    TERESA  79 

ing  accident  which  had  got  him  to  bring  Evelyn 
to  see  the  great  painter,  whose  genius  he  had  recog- 
nised always. 

The  portrait  was  one  of  the  most  beautiful;  it* 
was  not  as  complete  as  an  Old  Master,  but  Owen^s 
connoisseurship  roso  above  such  difficulties.  Things 
which  the  painter  had  not  observed,  things  which 
had  not  interested  him,  he  had  omitted;  he  had 
not  tried  to  rival  the  completeness  of  nature;  he 
had  been  content  to  paint  a  portrait,  which,  Owen 
often  said  to  himself,  would  be  like  her  when  the 
gold  faded  from  her  hair,  and  no  pair  of  stays  would 
discover  her  hips. 

He  had  painted  the  essential,  a  young  woman  of 
genius,  who  had  gone  to  Paris  on  the  mission  of 
her  genius,  and  in  the  eyes  he  had  fixed  the  un- 
tamable light  of  genius,  and  in  the  thin  small  mouth 
a  thirst  which  no  spiritual  Paradise  could  wholly 
allay.  It  was  all  this  to  Owen,  but  Owen's  friends, 
who  saw  only  the  superficial  appearance,  said  it 
was  merely  a  very  unflattering  portrait  of  an  at- 
tractive woman. 

One  morning  Evelyn  had  happened  to  sit  on  the 
edge  of  a  chair  in  the  same  attitude  as  the  painter 
had  seen  her  sit  in  by  the  side  of  her  accompanist 
one  morning,  and  he  had  told  her  not  to  move; 
remembering  her  grey  shawl,  he  had  hurriedly 
fetched  a  shawl  and  had  placed  it  about  her  shoul- 
ders. And  this  seemed  to  most  critics  a  most  com- 
monplace and  inartistic  way  of  painting  the  portrait 


80  SISTER    TERESA 

of  a  great  singer.  But  she  was  very  probable  in  this 
picture;  her  past  and  perhaps  her  future  was  in 
this  disconcerting  compound  of  the  commonplace 
and  the  rare,  and  the  confusion  which  this  had 
created  in  the  mind  of  Owen's  friends  was  aggra- 
vated by  the  strange  elliptical  execution.  The  face 
had  been  achieved  with  a  shadow  and  a  light,  the 
light  faintly  gradated  with  a  delicate  shade  of  rose ; 
and  in  the  midst  of  this  almost  ungradated  colour, 
the  right  eye  had  been  drawn  without  the  help  of 
any  shadow.  In  a  bad  light  the  picture  looked 
ridiculous,  and  the  loose  drawing,  which  was  insep- 
arable from  the  genius  of  the  painting,  fretted  the 
eye,  but  with  a  ray  of  light  the  beauties  of  the  pic- 
ture reappeared. 

Owen  knew  well  that  it  proclaimed  the  room  in 
which  it  hung  to  be  the  room  of  a  man  of  taste. 
And  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  picture,  his  thoughts 
wandered  back  and  forward  from  the  past  when 
she  was  his,  to  the  future  when  she  might  be  his 
again.  He  wondered  what  she  was  doing  now, 
where  she  was,  and  if  she  would  write  to  him  again ; 
for  she  sometimes  wrote  to  him,  being  unwilling, 
as  he  thought,  to  abandon  her  power  over  him. 

One  evening,  wondering  at  his  own  credulity,  he 
strove  to  throw  his  will  out  to  reach  her  brain,  to 
overpower  her  will  with  his,  and  force  her  to  come 
to  see  him.  The  next  post  brought  him  a  letter 
from  Evelyn,  and  though  his  subsequent  experi- 
ments in  telepathy  were  not  so  successful,  he  re- 


SISTER    TERESA  81 

tained  sufficient  belief  in  the  possibilities  of  in- 
fluencing another's  mind  to  try  again.  Having 
nothing  else  to  do,  he  strove  to  cultivate  a  visionary 
power,  and  he  sometimes  thought  that  he  saw  her; 
but  the  room  or  landscape  he  saw  her  in  soon  re- 
verted to  some  room  or  landscape  familiar  to  him, 
and  he  sat  wondering  if  it  were  the  collective  will 
of  the  convent  which  thwarted  and  rendered  him 
unable  to  reach  and  influence  Evelyn. 

He  began  to  believe  she  was  dead.  He  drove  the 
thought  out  of  his  mind,  but  it  returned,  and  he 
felt  that  he  must  get  news  of  her.  From  no  one 
except  Mr.  Innes  could  he  get  news  of  Evelyn. 
Six  years  ago  he  had  gone  away  with  his  daughter. 
But  what  had  he  done  for  Evelyn — he  had  made 
her  a  great  success,  he  had  made  her  an  artist.  Mr. 
Innes  would  appreciate  that.  He  remembered,  and 
with  satisfaction,  that  he  had  asked  Evelyn  to  marry 
him.  His  conduct  had  been  irreproachable,  and 
seeing  things  in  a  new  light  he  wondered  why  he 
had  not  gone  to  Mr.  Innes  long  ago.  Perhaps  Mr. 
Innes  would  help  him  to  get  Evelyn  back  again, 
and  conscious  of  his  rectitude  he  went  to  Dulwich. 

"  Mr.  Innes,"  he  said,  as  he  came  into  the  room 
before  the  door  had  closed  behind  him,  "  I  have 
come  to  you  for  news  of  Evelyn.  She  never  writes 
to  me  now,  and  I  am  overborne  with  anxiety." 

"  Evelyn  is  in  London,  but  she  has  retired  from 
the  world,  and  has  asked  me  not  to  give  her  address 
to  anyone,  that  is  why  she  is  not  here." 


82  SISTER    TERESA 

"  I  am  sorry  that  I  prevent  your  daughter  from 
coming  to  live  with  you ;  but  you  can  tell  her  that 
I  will  not  try  to  seek  her  out;  and  will  you  ask 
her  to  write  to  me  sometimes,  and  if  that  is  im- 
possible will  you  write  to  me  ?  If  you  will  do  this, 
Mr.  Innes,  you  will  confer  an  obligation.     I  know 

that But  you  know  the  whole  story ;    she  has 

told  it  to  you,  and  truthfully,  no  doubt;  there  was 
no  reason  why  she  should  not;  moreover,  she  was 
always  very  truthful." 

"  Yes ;  I  think  I  know  the  whole  story,  and  I  am 
sorry  for  you." 

They  spent  the  afternoon  talking  of  her,  and 
Owen  felt  that  with  her  father  for  an  ally  he  might 
induce  Evelyn  to  marry  him.  The  afternoon  had 
been  a  charming  one;  not  once  had  Mr.  Innes  re- 
buked him — yes,  once,  when  he  had  asked  him  if 
Evelyn  sang  as  well  as  her  mother.  And  Owen  re- 
flected how  strangely  her  art  had  been  driven  out 
by  another  instinct. 

The  idea  of  inherited  tendency  at  once  interested 
him,  and  he  began  to  invent  for  her  a  religious 
grandmother.  He  came  of  a  scientific  generation, 
and  the  idea  of  a  sudden  revelation  did  not  occur 
to  him.  If  Ulick  had  suggested  it  to  him — this 
would  have  been  Ulick's  explanation  of  Evelyn's 
conversion — Owen  would  have  repudiated  it  as 
ridiculous.  And  as  he  walked  away  from  Dow- 
lands  he  wavered  between  a  grandmother  and  a 
great-aunt,  and  the  idea  did  not  leave  his  thoughts 


SISTER    TERESA  83 

until  his  attention  was  attracted  by  the  chestnut 
bloom  which  was  shedding  upon  the  pavement. 
These  trees  were  to  him  Evelyn's  trees,  and  he 
stopped  to  think  of  the  first  time  he  had  seen  her 
cross  the  road.  She  wore  an  old  dress.  She  had 
a  letter  in  her  hand,  and  she  had  been  ashamed  of 
her  house  slippers. 

But  at  that  moment  ITlick,  who  was  going  to 
Dowlands,  caught  sight  of  this  tall,  meditative  man, 
and  he  hurried  to  the  other  side  of  the  street.  Owen 
hurried  after  him,  and  encouraged  bv  his  success 
Avith  Mr.  Innes,  he  attempted  to  win  Ulick  over. 
He  began  by  asking  him  if  he  might  walk  back 
w4th  him  as  far  as  Dowlands,  and  on  the  way  there 
he  spoke  against  doctrinal  Christianity  and  the 
monastic  idea  so  sympathetically  that  Ulick  was 
led  into  the  conversation,  and  he  communicated 
several  ideas  on  the  subject. 

Owen's  appearance  was  distasteful  to  Ulick — the 
varnished  boots,  the  turned-up  trousers,  though  the. 
day  was  dry,  the  large  shirt  cuffs,  the  scarf  pin,  and 
some  few  other  suggestions  of  careful  dressing  an- 
noyed Ulick,  and  he  wondered  how  a  man  could 
Avaste  so  much  time  on  his  appearance.  At  the  same 
moment  Owen  wondered  at  Ulick's  rough  suit  of 
clothes;  they  were  creased,  but  they  looked  well 
upon  him,  and  Owen  was  not  wholly  displeased  by 
Ulick's  rough  appearance.  He  could  not  imitate  it, 
habit  was  too  strong,  but  he  could  admire  it.  There 
were  moments  when  Owen  was  broad  minded.     He 


84  SISTER    TERESA 

understood  how  Evelyn  could  admire  this  young 
man  better  than  Ulick  could  understand  how  she 
could  have  liked  a  man  whose  chief  concern,  if  not 
his  whole  concern,  was  with  things  rather  than  with 
ideas.  It  seemed  to  him  difficult  to  believe  that 
Owen  should  have  any  serious  love  of  music.  But 
his  belief  on  this  point  was  subsequently  modified 
by  the  very  sincere  admiration  which  Owen  showed 
for  nearly  all  Ulick's  compositions.  He  talked  of 
them,  and  with  conviction,  because  he  liked  them 
and  because  it  seemed  to  him  of  the  very  first  im- 
portance that  he  should  see  Ulick  again.  The  desire 
of  the  moment  was  with  Owen  the  most  important 
desire,  and  he  was  so  anxious  for  Ulick  to  come  to 
dinner  that  he  pressed  him  almost  indecorously  to 
accept  the  invitation.  To  pass  the  evening  with 
Owen  Asher,  he  knew,  would  be  disagreeable,  but 
Ulick  was  always  prone  to  find  a  soul  of  goodness 
in  evil  things ;  and  Owen's  sorrow  had  put  him  into 
a  favourable  light  for  Ulick's  eyes  to  see  him,  and 
Ulick  had  suddenly  begun  to  think  that  he  might 
awaken  in  Owen  some  spiritual  aspiration;  and  it 
was  in  this  absurd  hope  that  he  nodded  his  head 
when  Owen  said, — 

"  Then  at  a  quarter-past  eight. '^ 

If  he  had  said  eight,  the  hour  would  not  have 
brought  into  view  their  hostility,  which  circum- 
stances had,  for  the  moment,  hidden  from  them.  It 
was  the  quarter  after  that  reminded  Ulick  that  he 
would  have  to  wear  evening  clothes,  and  he  wrote 


SISTER    TERESA  85 

to  Owen  asking  that  he  might  be  excused  going, 
giving  as  a  reason  that  he  never  wore  evening 
clothes.  The  letter  astonished  Owen.  It  was  diffi- 
cult for  him  to  believe  that  anyone  ever  sat  down  to 
dinner  except  in  evening  clothes,  at  least,  anyone 
whom  he  could  ask  to  dine  with  him.  But  he  was 
so  anxious  to  see  Ulick  that  he  wrote  a  letter  saying 
he  might  come  in  any  clothes  he  liked,  and  he  sent 
his  valet  with  it. 

Ulick  had  said  in  his  letter  that  he  had  not  a 
suit  of  clothes,  and  the  tone  of  the  letter,  though 
polite,  showed  Owen  that  Ulick  was  indifferent  to 
the  honour  of  Sir  Owen's  friendship.  Owen's  face 
darkened  for  a  moment,  but  he  put  the  thought 
aside,  for  the  temptation  of  the  moment  was  always 
an  irresistible  temptation  for  him,  and  he  desired 
Ulick's  company,  for  he  felt  he  must  find  someone 
to  whom  he  could  talk  of  Evelyn,  of  her  beautiful 
voice,  and  the  mysterious  scruples  which  had  led 
her  away  from  art  and  love.  Moreover,  Ulick  was 
an  accomplished  musician,  and  he  would  be  able  to 
ask  his  opinion  about  some  songs  he  had  just  fin- 
ished, in  which  there  were  a  few  passages  which 
Ulick  would  put  right  in  a  moment. 

The  meeting  of  the  men  was  very  formal.  Owen 
had  put  on  a  smoking  suit,  so  that  the  discrepancy 
between  his  appearance  and  Ulick's  would  not  be 
too  marked,  and  he  asked, — 

"  Have  you  been  writing  much  lately,  Mr. 
Deane?" 


86  SISTER    TERESA 

The  conversation  then  turned  upon  Wagner  and 
Mr.  Innes's  concerts,  and  a  few  minutes  after  the 
butler  announced  dinner  was  ready.  They  sat  down 
in  a  shadowy  room,  with  two  footmen  besides  a  but- 
ler attending  upon  them.  The  footmen  moved  mys- 
teriously in  the  shadows  of  the  sideboard,  obeying 
signs  and  whispered  words,  and  it  seemed  to  Ulick 
as  if  they  were  assisting  at  some  strange  ritual. 

The  conversation  halted  many  times,  for  both  men 
were  thinking  of  Evelyn,  and  it  seemed  to  Owen 
that,  for  the  present,  at  least,  her  name  must  not  be 
mentioned.  The  butler's  voice  acquired  a  strange 
resonance  in  the  still  room ;  he  offered  Ulick  many 
different  kinds  of  wine,  and  Owen  intervened  in 
vain — Ulick  only  drank  water.  At  last  Evelyn^s 
name  was  mentioned,  and  the  conversation  at  once 
became  more  animated,  and  it  seemed  to  Ulick  that 
even  the  servants  must  feel  a  relief.  Nevertheless, 
Owen  had  only  mentioned  Miss  Innes's  Elsa,  and  he 
passed  rapidly  on  to  the  inferiority  of  the  tenor, 
and  the  inadequacy  of  the  scenery  in  the  second  act. 
But  the  ice  had  been  broken,  and  when  they  left  the 
dining-room  and  lit  their  cigarettes,  Owen  felt  that 
he  must  speak  unconstrainedly. 

"  But  can  nothing  be  done  f  he  said.  "  Why 
don't  you  go  to  her  and  tell  her  that  in  the  interests 
of  art  she  must  return  to  the  stage  ?  That  is  a  mat- 
ter which  interests  you  more  than  anyone,  for  are 
you  not  writing  an  opera  on  the  subject  of  Grania^ 
and  who  could  play  Grania  but  she  ?" 


SISTEK    TEKESA  87 

He  was  ashamed  of  his  curiosity,  for  he  burned 
to  know  if  Evelyn  had  loved  Ulick  as  passionately 
as  she  had  loved  him,  and  he  studied  the  young 
man,  trying  to  solve  the  enigma  of  personal  attrac- 
tion. 

"  She  talked  so  much  about  you,''  he  said,  "  I 
know  she  liked  you  very  much,"  the  words  caused 
him  an  effort  to  speak,  and  yet  it  was  a  relief  to 
speak  them.  "  She  liked  your  opera  and  was  en- 
thusiastic about  it.  I  wish  you  would  use  your  in- 
fluence. I  think  you  might  persuade  her  from  that 
infernal  convent." 

That  he  was  afraid  she  would  never  return  to 
the  stage  was  the  only  answer  Owen  could  get  from 
Ulick,  and  as  he  showed  no  desire  to  continue  the 
conversation,  Owen  told  Ulick  how  Evelyn  had 
studied  the  part  of  Leonore.  "  She  used  to  sit  read- 
ing and  re-reading  the  music,  until  she  became  pos- 
sessed of  the  character,  and  when  she  went  on  the 
stage,  every  look,  every  gesture,  every  intonation 
was  inspired." 

Owen  spoke  like  one  speaking  in  a  dream;  and 
as  if  awaking  to  its  echo,  Ulick  compared  Evelyn's 
spontaneous  acting  to  the  beautiful  movement  of 
clouds  and  trees  and  to  the  growth  of  flowers,  and 
turning  over  the  leaves  of  an  album  Owen  read  from 
it  an  article  by  a  German  critic. 

"  ^  Her  nature  intended  her  for  the  representa- 
tion of  ideal  heroines,  whose  love  is  pure,  and  it 
does  not  allow  her  to  depict  the  violence  of  physical 


88  SISTEK    TEEESA 

passion,  and  the  delirium  of  the  senses.  She  is  an 
artiste  of  the  peaks,  whose  feet  may  not  descend 
into  the  plain  and  follow  its  ignominious  route;' 
and  then  here,  *  He  who  has  seen  her  as  the  spotless 
spouse  of  the  son  of  Parsifal  standing  by  the  win- 
dow has  assisted  at  the  mystery  of  the  chaste  soul 
awaiting  the  coming  of  the  predestined  lover,'  and 
'  he  who  has  seen  her  as  Elizabeth  ascending  the 
hillside  has  felt  the  nostalgia  of  the  skies  awaken 
in  his  heart.'  Then  he  goes  on  to  say  that  her  special 
genius  and  her  antecedents  led  her  to  ^  Fidelio'  and 
designed  her  as  the  perfect  embodiment  of  Leonore's 
soul,  that  pure,  beautiful  soul  made  wholly  of  sacri- 
fice and  love.  But  you  never  saw  her  as  Leonore, 
so  you  can  form  no  idea  of  what  she  really  was." 
But  seeing  that  Ulick  was  far  away,  he  wondered 
how  this  ambiguous  young  man  thought  of  her.  He 
divined  Ulick's  thoughts  very  nearly,  if  allowance 
be  made  for  the  translation,  which  had  necessarily 
caught  something  of  the  tone  of  his  mind.  "  He 
thinks  of  her  as  some  legendary  heroine,  some  ab- 
straction, and  not  as  a  real  woman  to  be  looked 
upon  with  delight  and  kissed  with  rapture." 

So  far  he  was  right  that  Ulick  hardly  thought  of 
her  at  all  as  a  woman  to  be  kissed,  though  he  remem- 
bered her  mouth  and  recognised  that  the  senses  had 
enabled  him  to  understand  a  great  deal  that  he 
would  not  have  otherwise  understood.  But  in  him 
sensual  remembrance  was  now  merged  in  a  spiritual 
glamour.     He  thought  of  her  as  an  eternal  loveli- 


SISTER    TERESA  89 

ness  in  life,  one  of  the  immortal  essences  which,  as 
it  put  off  its  vesture  of  sense  and  circumstance,  as 
it  passed  beyond  the  obscuration  of  the  sensual  illu- 
sion, he  could  see  more  clearly  and  understand  more 
devoutly.  The  difference  in  their  present  apprecia- 
tion of  her  was  merely  a  slight  difference  in  form. 
She  had  become  to  both  what  the  heart  ponders  and 
the  imagination  perceives,  rather  than  what  the  flesh 
enjoys. 

"  I  will  read  to  you  what  she  wrote  me  when  she 
was  studying  *  Fidelio.'  *  Beethoven's  music  has 
nothing  in  common  with  the  passion  of  the  flesh; 
it  lives  in  the  realms  of  noble  affections,  pity,  ten- 
derness, love,  spiritual  yearnings  for  the  life  beyond 
the  world,  and  its  joy  in  the  external  world  is  as 
innocent  as  a  happy  child's.  It  is  in  this  sense 
classical — it  lives  and  loves  and  breathes  in  spheres 
of  feeling  and  thought  removed  from  the  ordinary 
life  of  men.  Wagner's  later  work,  if  we  except 
some  scenes  from  The  Ring,  notably  the  scenes  be- 
tween Wotan  and  Brunhilde,  is  nearer  to  the  life 
of  the  senses ;  its  humanity  is  fresh  in  us,  deep  as 
Brunhilde's,  for  essential  man  lives  not  in  the  flesh 
but  in  the  spirit.  The  desire  of  the  flesh  is  more 
necessary  to  the  life  of  the  world  than  the  aspira- 
tions of  the  soul,  yet  the  aspirations  of  the  soul  are 
more  human.  The  root  is  more  necessary  to  the 
plant  than  its  flower,  but  it  is  by  the  flower  and  not 
by  the  root  that  we  know  it.'  " 

"  Is  it  not  amazing  that  a  woman  who  could  think 


90  SISTEK    TERESA 

like  that  should  be  capable  of  flinging  up  her  art — 
the  art  which  I  gave  her — on  account  of  the  preach- 
ing of  that  wooden-headed  Mostyn?"  Suddenly 
sitting  doA\Ti,  he  opened  a  drawer,  and  taking  out 
her  photograph,  he  said,  "  Here  she  is  as  Leonore ; 
but  you  should  have  seen  her^  this  gives  you  no  idea 
of  her;  but  you  have  not  looked  at  her  picture,  I 
suppose  it  means  nothing  to  you — the  most  beauti- 
ful thing  that  Manet  ever  painted — the  most  beau- 
tiful in  the  room,  and  there  are  a  great  many 
beautiful  things  in  the  room." 

Surprised  by  a  discriminating  remark,  Owen  was 
encouraged  to  take  Ulick  round  the  room,  and  ex- 
plain to  him  his  pictures,  his  furniture,  and  his 
china;  but  their  thoughts  were  not  with  these 
things,  but  with  Evelyn,  and  they  were  glad  when 
they  got  back  to  their  armchairs  in  front  of  her  por- 
trait. 

"  Yes,  she  must  have  been  wonderful  as  Leonore," 
Ulick  said,  waking  from  his  reveries,  and  getting 
up  from  his  chair,  and  forgetful  of  Owen,  he  began 
to  walk  up  and  down  the  room.  Owen  watched 
him,  silent  with  anticipation,  anxious  to  hear  him 
tell  the  tale  of  his  grief.  But  Ulick  paced  to  and 
fro,  seemingly  forgetful  of  Owen's  presence,  until 
at  last  Owen's  patience  was  over.  "  She  is  mad 
beyond  doubt;  no  one  who  was  not  would  give  up 
the  stage  because  that  wooden-headed  Mostyn 
thought  it  was  wrong.  Don't  you  agree  with  me  ?" 
he  said. 


SISTER    TERESA  91 

At  last,  in  reply  to  Owen's  importunities  whether 
he  could  tell  Evelyn's  future,  he  said  that  she  had 
fallen  into  an  entanglement  of  that  most  material 
of  all  spiritualities — Catholicism,  and  he  seemed  to 
douht  if  she  would  be  able  to  set  herself  free  for  a 
long  time.  "  Monsignor's  influence  will  not  en- 
dure,'' he  said  suddenly.  "  Twice  she  sailed  forth, 
and  he  or  she  who  adventures  twice  will  adventure 
a  third  time. 

"  But  this  third  time ;  what  will  the  third  adven- 
ture be  ?" 

^^  We  may  know  that  certain  things  will  happen, 
but  we  cannot  tell  how  they  will  happen.  After 
Bram  returned  from  the  islands  of  many  delights 
he  was  warned  that  if  he  set  foot  on  earthly  shores 
he  would  be  turned  to  dust,  so  he  sailed  the  ship 
along  the  coast  of  his  native  land,  but  did  not  leave 
the  ship." 

When  Ulick  had  gone  Owen  sat  thinking,  won- 
dering what  he  had  meant  by  Bram  who  had  sailed 
the  ship  close  to  the  shore  but  had  not  dared  to  leave 
the  ship.  The  first  adventure  was,  as  Ulick  had  put 
it,  in  quest  of  earthly  experience;  the  second  was 
in  quest  of  spiritual  peace — what  would  the  third 
be?  But  it  was  past  two  o'clock,  and  still  conjec- 
turing what  the  third  would  be  he  went  to  bed.  He 
wished  these  evenings  to  happen  frequently.  He 
was  weary  of  society,  of  shooting  and  hunting  and 
all  the  pleasures  of  his  class,  and  whenever  he  had 
an  evening  to  spare  he  sent  his  valet  to  Bloomsbury 


92  SISTER    TERESA 

with  a  note  asking  Ulick  if  he  would  dine  with 
him. 

But  Ulick  could  not  be  persuaded  after  the  third 
dinner  to  accept  another.  Owen  strove  to  shake 
himself  free  of  his  habitual  thought  and  to  get 
nearer  to  Ulick's.  But  he  had  to  speak  of  his  shoot- 
ing, and  his  mistresses  and  the  parties  he  went  to, 
and  Ulick,  when  he  walked  home  the  third  evening 
from  Berkeley  Square,  understood  the  aversion 
which  had  awakened  in  Evelyn  for  the  life  of  things 
— even  the  monastery  seemed  to  him  to  be  a  welcome 
refuge  from  the  futility  of  Berkeley  Square. 


IX 

One  day  Owen^s  cabman  took  a  short  cut  through 
a  slum.  Owen  hated  the  way,  and  as  he  was  about 
to  say  so  he  saw  a  tall  figure  in  brown  holland  whom 
he  believed  to  be  Evelyn.  He  called  to  her  and 
put  up  his  stick;  but  before  the  driver  could  stop 
his  horse  she  had  passed  through  a  bare  door — a 
grim-looking  place,  a  sort  of  workshop  or  factory! 
But  where  Evelyn  had  gone  he  must  follow.  The 
door  was  opened  at  once,  and  he  discovered  her 
among  a  swarm  of  children.  Children  swarmed  on 
the  staircase — he  thought  he  must  be  in  a  school. 
Raising  his  voice  above  the  din,  he  expressed  sur- 
prise at  finding  her  in  such  a  place ;  and  no  sooner 
had  he  spoken  than  he  regretted  his  words,  fearing 
he  had  displeased  her.  But  she  gave  him  her  ad- 
dress, and  told  him  if  he  would  go  there  she  would 
be  with  him  in  about  half  an  hour. 

And  in  the  full  enjoyment  of  the  accident  which 

had  unexpectedly  befallen  him,  he  wondered  what 

the  flat  was  like,  he  thought  how  she  would  come 

into  the  room,  and  how  their  long  talk  would  begin. 

He  was  driving  along  the  Bayswater  Road,  and  the 

world  seemed  throbbing  like  his  heart ;   a  soft  wind 

carried  the  foliage  to  and  fro,  and  the  deep  blue 

93 


»4  SISTER    TERESA 

skj  seemed  brimmed  with  love  like  his  heart.  The 
cabman  stopped  before  a  new  cut  stone  doorway, 
and  in  the  lift  his  excitement  increased — first  floor, 
second  floor,  third,  fourth.  The  lift  man  pointed 
out  the  door.  The  common  brass  knocker  seemed 
trivial  and  unworthy  of  her.  Was  Herat  still  with 
her  ?  She  was,  and  he  would  learn  from  Merat  all 
about  Evelvn — if  she  were  as  religious  as  ever — if 
there  were  any  hope  of  her  going  back  to  the  stage ; 
he  was  anxious  to  know  whom  she  saw  and  how  she 
spent  her  time.  But  first  of  all  he  had  to  tell  where 
he  had  met  her. 

Merat  knew  that  Evelyn  had  gone  to  Kelsey  Row 
to  arrange  about  a  day  in  the  country  for  some 
school  children;  but  she  was  unable  to  imagine 
the  accident  which  had  brought  Sir  Owen  to  such 
a  slum,  and  he  listened  to  Herat's  tale  of  her  mis- 
tress's foolhardiness  in  going  to  such  places. 

Eleas  had  come  back  with  her,  and  nastier  things, 
and  she  feared  lest  Mademoiselle  should  one  day 
catch  a  dangerous  disease. 

"  Such  a  woman  as  she  is,  Herat.  Her  voice  and 
her  talent!  I  don't  say  I  don't  admire  goodness, 
but  there  are  others  who  could  do  that  kind  of  work 
better  than  she." 

He  sat  with  his  long  legs  crossed  and  his  hands 
clasped,  hearing  that  she  went  to  Hass  every  morn- 
ing and  that  there  were  few  afternoons  she  did 
not  go  to  Benediction.  All  her  old  friends  had 
dropped  away,  there  was  only  one  she  cared  to  see 


SISTER    TERESA  95 

now — Mademoiselle  Helbrun,  and  Mademoiselle 
Helbrun  was  seldom  in  London. 

"  But  where  does  she  dine  V 

"  Here,  Sir  Owen." 

"Alone?" 

"  Yes,  Sir  Owen." 

"  And  she  spends  all  her  evenings  here,  alone  ?" 

"  Yes,  here.  Sir  Owen,  reading  in  that  chair  or 
writing  at  that  little  table.  She  spends  hours  and 
hours  quite  contented,  writing." 

"  Does  she  not  see  Mr.  Ulick  Dean  ?" 

"  Mr.  Dean  comes  occasionally  to  see  Mademoi- 
selle, but " 

"  But  what,  Merat  ?" 

"  Mademoiselle  is  very  much  changed.  Sir  Owen, 
and  Mr.  Dean  knows  it,  and  he  says  nothing  that 
clashes  with  her  opinions.  You  understand.  Sir 
Owen;  I  am  sure  Mademoiselle  would  like  me  to 
speak  straightforwardly  to  you.  What  I  mean  is 
that  the  opera  singer  is  quite  dead  in  Mademoi- 
selle." 

"  You  think  she  will  never  go  back  to  the  stage  ?" 

"  I  don't  think  so.  Sir  Owen ;  it  would  not  be 
natural  after  all  she  has  been  through." 

"  Do  you  think  she  will  marry  ?" 

"  I  could  not  say,  Sir  Owen." 

":N'otMr.  Dean?" 

Merat  shook  her  head. 

"  Then  what  do  you  think  will  be  the  end — there 
must  be  an  end — the  convent  ?" 


96  SISTER    TERESA 

"  Mademoiselle  goes  every  week  to  the  convent, 
and  spends  from  Saturday  to  Monday  there.'' 

"  Good  heavens !" 

He  got  out  of  his  arm-chair  and  walked  into  the 
small  hall,  and,  looking  round,  he  wondered  how 
she  could  live  in  such  discomfort;  and  he  asked 
Merat  if  he  might  see  the  dining-room. 

"  This  is  not  what  we  are  used  to,  is  it,  Merat  1 
Not  quite  up  to  the  level  of  Park  Lane." 

They  continued  to  deplore  the  change  that  had 
come  over  Evelyn.  They  exaggerated  their  disap- 
proval in  the  hopes  of  convincing  themselves  that 
they  were  right  and  she  was  wrong,  that  she  was 
a  poor  misguided  person,  worthy  of  their  pity,  but 
they  only  succeeded  in  convincing  themselves  super- 
ficially. Even  while  he  insisted  on  her  folly,  Owen 
was  aware  of  something  great  and  noble,  and  the 
image  which  did  not  define  itself  in  his  mind,  but 
passed  at  the  back  of  it,  was  of  a  tall  tree  which 
had  growTi  above  the  original  scrub. 

Suddenly  they  heard  her  latch-key  in  the  door, 
and  when  she  came  into  the  room  he  sat  looking 
at  her,  trying  to  puzzle  out  the  enigma  of  the  change 
which,  in  spite  of  himself,  he  could  not  but  admire. 
She  was  not  cleverer  than  before,  nor  more  beau- 
tiful, but  she  had  gained  in  character,  and  he  could 
not  hide  from  himself  that  her  present  self  was 
superior  to  her  former  self,  that  she  was  nearer  to 
the  truths  of  life  than  when  she  used  to  act  on  the 
stage. 


SISTER    TERESA  97 

"  I  don't  think  you  would  ever  have  understood 
my  love  of  my  poor  people  if  you  had  not  met  me 
in  that  slum ;  seeing  me  there  explained  more  than 
any  amount  of  conversation." 

He  swallowed  a  dryness  out  of  his  throat  and 
said  it  was  more  than  a  year  since  he  had  seen  her ; 
he  spoke  of  their  parting  at  Thornton  Grange,  one 
morning  among  ruined  flowers  and  blown  leaves. 
That  sudden  change  was  more  difficult  to  under- 
stand than  this  gradual  change  which  had  come 
over  her  between  midnight  and  noon.  They  had 
stood  talking  together  the  night  before,  an  amorous 
mood  had  grown  up  in  her,  and  he  had  expected 
her  to  allow  him  to  go  to  her  room.  And  he  had 
never  understood  why  she  had  not  come — why  she 
was  so  different  the  next  morning. 

He  waited  for  her  to  answer,  and  to  avoid  answer- 
ing, she  asked  him  where  he  had  been.  She  had 
heard  he  had  been  round  the  world,  and  he  told  her 
of  the  silent  Arabs  passing  from  one  side  of  the 
street  to  the  other  seeking  the  shade,  and  he  found 
it  interesting  to  tell  her  of  his  cry  when  he  got  to 
Egypt, — "Give  me  a  drink  of  clean  water." 

She  asked  him  where  he  had  gone  when  he  left 
Egypt,  and  he  entered  into  an  account  of  his  travels 
in  Mesapotamia,  but  he  had  hardly  reached  the 
brick  mounds  of  Babylon  when  he  broke  dowm — 
he  could  not  talk  to  her  of  Mesapotamia,  nor  of 
Japan  nor  America.  These  places  were  but  shadows, 
hardly  more  rememberable  than  shadows.     She  was 


98  SISTEK    TEKESA 

his  consciousness  of  life,  he  said,  and  he  took  her 
hand ;  and  withdrawing  her  hand,  she  told  him  her 
present  plan  was  to  enter  the  convent  as  a  postulant 
so  that  she  might  sing  every  day  at  Benediction. 
She  hoped  to  attract  attention  to  the  convent,  and 
when  its  necessities  became  known,  some  pious 
Catholic  would  come  forward  and  pay  the  mort- 
gages. Her  concert  tour  had  not  been  a  success; 
she  might  lose  money  in  a  second  tour;  then  the 
nuns  would  be  dispersed,  the  house  and  the  chapel 
would  be  pulled  down,  and  the  trees  would  be  cut, 
and  rows  of  stiff  stucco  villas  would  overlook  the 
Common. 

"  Yes,  I  should  like  to  be  a  nun,"  she  said,  and 
her  face  became  suddenly  absorbed ;  ''  but  I  am 
afraid  I  have  not  a  vocation." 

"  And  when  your  postulancy  is  over  you  will  be 
a  novice — and  when  your  noviceship  is  over  you 
will  pass  our  of  my  sight  for  ever.  I  shall  never 
see  you  again;  it  will  be  the  same  as  if  you  were 
dead." 

She  stood  looking  at  him,  and  he  was  conscious 
of  the  mystery  of  her  character ;  it  seemed  to  float 
round  her  as  she  sat  on  the  sofa  looking  at  him.  He 
grew  frightened — and  in  the  nervous  silence  he 
studied  the  outline  of  the  freckled  face. 

He  had  always  recognised  himself  a  little  in  the 
long  straight  nose  and  in  the  blonde  skin,  and  one 
of  her  attractions  for  him  was  a  curious  sense  of 
some  mystic  kinship  of  blood  which  he  could  not 


SISTER    TERESA  99 

explain,  and  from  which  he  could  not  disentangle 
himself.  It  was  only  in  those  intense,  almost  ner- 
vous eyes  that  he  did  not  discover  himself.  He 
traced  some  fancied  similarity  in  the  deflecting 
line  of  her  chin  and  in  her  thin  hands.  And  they 
were  alike  in  their  feverish  desire  of  life.  She 
had  grasped  the  elusive  shadow  with  the  same  ob- 
stinate eagerness ;  and  in  their  hearts  was  the  same 
passionate  melancholy.  They  lived  for  the  sake  of 
the  memory  of  life  rather  than  for  life  itself. 

"  I  see,"  he  said,  "  that  all  this  while  the  convent 
has  been  drawing  you  nearer — absorbing  you.  You 
think  I  don^t  understand,  but  I  understand  all  that 
concerns  you.  Every  time  you  go  there  the  spell 
upon  you  is  a  little  stronger ;   is  not  that  so  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  think  it  is.  I  have  been  drawn  into  love 
of  the  convent,  and  I  am  conscious  of  its  influence 
and  yield  to  it ;  the  aspect  of  the  nuns — their  quiet 
eyes  and  their  tranquil  life — their  minds  always 
fixed  on  one  thing — attract  me,  and,  as  you  say,  I 
am  drawn  nearer  each  time." 

"  But  you  once  liked  the  strong,  the  self-willed 
— now  you  seem  to  like  the  weak  who  surrender, 
not  daring  to  continue  the  struggle." 

"  Yes,  I  think  that  is  so.  It  is  now  the  weak 
who  attract  me.  I  have  changed  in  everything. 
The  things  that  interested  me  once  interest  me  no 
longer.  Everything  is  different,  that  is  what  you 
do  not  seem  to  understand.  You  have  changed  in 
nothing." 


100  SISTER    TERESA 

^'  Yes,  I  do  understand,  but  I  can't  believe  that 
our  lives  are  divided.  Think,  Evelyn,  of  the  years 
and  years  we  have  been  together.  N^ever  to  see 
you  again — to  know  you  live,  yet  never  to  see 
you!" 

"  You  have  not  seen  me  for  a  year,  and  you  would 
have  lived  on  just  the  same  if  we  had  not  happened 
to  meet  in  that  slum." 

'^  I  went  away  determined  to  forget  you,  Evelyn, 
but  absence  has  only  made  you  dearer  to  me.  You 
see  Ulick,  and  Ulick  was  your  lover  and  you  have 
not  sent  him  away." 

^^  Ulick  is  not  my  lover  now." 

^'  That  is  no  consolation,"  he  exclaimed  passion- 
ately ;  ^^  better  Ulick  a  thousand  times  than  the 
convent." 

It  was  the  convent  he  dreaded  and  hated,  and 
when  the  strain  of  argument  became  intense,  when 
she  answered,  "  It  is  impossible  to  live  with  those 
who  hold  different  ideas;  there  is  neither  happi- 
ness nor  comfort  in  such  relations,"  he  looked  at 
her  despairingly,  not  able  to  utter  a  word,  and  in 
pity  for  him  she  turned  the  conversation  from  her- 
self, and  he  talked  mechanically  of  indifferent 
things,  hardly  aware  of  what  he  said;  words  were 
as  a  veil  behind  which  calamity  hid  itself  for  a 
while. 

^^  But,  Evelyn,  you  cannot  become  a  nun ;  nature 
forbids  it,"  he  said,  starting  from  his  chair. 

"  How  is  that  ?" 


SISTER    TERESA  101 

"  Have  you  no  thought  for  your  father  ?" 

"  You  mean  that  I  should  go  to  live  with  him." 

"  Of  course." 

He  told  how  he  had  found  her  father  sitting  at 
his  lonely  dinner. 

'^  I  lived  with  my  father  all  this  winter ;  and  I 
heard  of  nothing  but  music  all  the  time  I  was 
there." 

^^  And  has  music  no  longer  any  interest  for  you  ? 
Do  none  of  your  old  friends  interest  you  ?  Lady 
Ascott  ?" 

"  I  hope  I  remember  them  kindly ;  they  were 
kind  to  me,  as  they  understood  kindness,  and  they 
liked  me." 

"  As  they  understand  liking,"  he  said,  starting  to 
his  feet. 

"  I  am  sorry,  Owen." 

"  Your  clear  duty  is  by  your  father's  side ;  any 
priest  will  tell  you  that.  There  is  no  use  having  a 
religion  and  not  acting  up  to  it.  What  are  you 
laughing  at?" 

"  Only  that  it  seems  odd  to  hear  you  telling  me 
my  duty  is  towards  my  father." 

He  sat  and  argued  this  point  with  her  for  a  long 
while,  reminding  her  and  forcing  her  to  admit  that 
she  had  avoided  marriage  from  the  first. 

He  said  the  same  things  over  again — things  he 
had  said  a  hundred  times  before,  and  when  he  had 
said  them  he  felt  it  would  have  been  better  if  he  had 
said  nothing. 


102  SISTER    TERESA 

"  I  must  send  jou  away,  Owen." 

"  Well,"  he  said  at  the  door,  "  I  may  never  see 
you  again,  Evelyn.  But  remember  truth  is  truth 
from  whomsoever  it  comes.  Monsignor  will  tell  you 
that  you  cannot  leave  your  father  in  his  old  age." 


The  truth  had  come  to  her  from  a  strange  side, 
but  it  does  not  matter  from  what  side  the  truth 
comes  so  long  as  it  is  the  truth.  She  had  neglected 
her  father  during  the  last  year,  and  now  she  was 
planning  to  leave  him  for  three,  four,  or  six  months. 
But  he  did  not  seem  to  care  whether  she  came  or 
stayed  away.  His  ideas  seemed  to  fill  his  life  com- 
pletely— there  seemed  no  place  for  her  in  it.  When 
she  went  to  see  him,  he  was  glad  to  see  her,  but  he 
never  seemed  to  want  her;  and  Wimbledon  was 
but  a  few  miles  from  Dulwich;  if  he  wanted  her 
he  would  be  able  to  go  to  see  her,  and  she  intended 
to  get  him  a  good  servant  who  would  look  after 
him  and  see  that  he  had  his  meals  regularly.  But 
now  Owen  had  awakened  a  scruple  in  her,  and 
she  could  not  deny  to  herself  that  her  place  was  by 
her  father's  side.  Yet,  to  abandon  the  poor  nuns 
seemed  cruel,  and  she  thought  she  might  lay  the 
matter  before  her  father — he  alone  could  say 
whether  he  wanted  her,  and  if  he  did  not  want 
her  she  would  be  wasted.  But  he  would  say  he 
did  not  want  her;  he  would  let  her  go  to  the  con- 
vent   because    he    would    not    thwart    her    wishes. 

Owen  had  challenged  her  to  lay  the  matter  before 

103 


104  SISTER    TERESA 

Monsignor,  and  Owen  was  right;  and  she  smiled 
as  she  sat  writing  to  the  priest.  That  Owen  and 
Monsignor  should  agree  on  one  subject  amused  her 
not  a  little.     'Next  day  she  went  to  Monsignor. 

She  told  him  that  the  Prioress  had  said  she  would 
not  be  able  to  endure  the  strain  of  staying  with 
them  as  a  visitor;  and  as  she  would  not  say  that 
she  intended  to  become  a  nun,  the  Prioress  had 
hesitated  whether  she  could  accept  her  under  such 
conditions.  To  make  the  Prioress's  way  a  little 
easier,  she  had  said  that  her  constant  visits  to  the 
Wimbledon  convent  had  left  no  doubt  in  her  mind 
that  true  spiritual  elevation  can  only  be  attained 
through  the  cloister.  She  had  admitted  that  she 
would  like  to  become  a  nun  if  she  could  realise  the 
ideal  which  some  three  or  four  in  the  convent 
seemed  to  her  to  have  realised — the  Prioress,  Sister 
Mary  John,  and  Mother  Hilda.  She  knew  the  nuns 
very  well  by  this  time,  and  these  were  the  only 
ones  who  had  reached  a  high  degree  of  spiritual 
perfection.  The  larger  number  were  pious  women 
who  had  accepted  the  cloister  from  commonplace 
motives.  Some  had  accepted  it  in  order  to  escape 
from  freedom — to  many,  freedom  is  irksome  and 
a  rule  of  life  a  necessity ;  some  few,  no  doubt,  had 
entered  the  convent  from  disappointment. 

It  seemed  strange  to  Monsignor  that  the  Prioress 
should  accept  her  as  a  postulant,  knowing  that  she 
did  not  intend  to  stay  in  the  convent ;  and  Evelyn 
had  to  admit  that  she  had  said  she  hoped  that  six 


SISTER    TERESA  106 

months  in  the  convent  would  discover  a  vocation 
in  her. 

"  And  if  vou  find  you  have  a  vocation  vou  will 
leave  your  father  for  ever  ?" 

Monsignor  spoke  of  the  duty  of  children  towards 
their  parents,  and  of  the  age  of  Mr.  Innes,  and  he 
pointed  out  that  his  interest  in  artistic  things  ren- 
dered him  incapable  of  dealing  with  the  practical 
affairs  of  life.  He  laid  stress  on  the  fact  that  if 
she  were  to  leave  her  father  and  anything  were  to 
happen  to  him  she  would  never  be  able  to  forgive 
herself,  nor  did  he  think  she  would  find  in  the 
convent  any  nobler  mission  than  she  would  find 
waiting  for  her  in  Dulwich.  He  said  that  if  the 
Prioress  had  consented  to  relax  the  rule,  as  she 
had  been  advised,  and  had  built  a  laundry,  these 
monetary  difficulties  would  not  have  arisen,  and 
Evelyn,  whose  sympathies  were  all  with  the  con- 
templative orders,  gathered  up  her  courage  and 
spoke  of  Martha  and  Mary;  Mary  had  been  con- 
tent to  worship  at  the  feet  of  Christ;  but  Martha 
had  fussed  about  external  things,  and  these,  though 
intended  to  give  him  honour,  were  not  so  valuable 
to  him  as  the  mere  loving  worship  of  Mary.  Christ 
himself  had  said  that  Mary  had  chosen  the  better 
part,  and  was  not  this  a  vindication  of  the  con- 
templative orders  ?  Monsignor  answered  that 
Christ  had  mixed  with  the  publicans  and  Phari- 


She  had  put  her  case  in  his  hands,  and  was  going 


106  SISTER    TERESA 

to  abide  by  his  decision.  She  would  go  to  her 
father,  live  with  him,  attend  upon  him,  do  all  that 
a  daughter  should  do.  She  had  not  realised  that  her 
postulancy  could  not  have  been  more  than  an  ex- 
periment. Monsignor  had  made  this  clear  to  her; 
and,  as  if  to  reward  her  for  her  obedience  to  him, 
she  found  a  letter  from  her  father  on  her  table,  ask- 
ing her  to  go  to  the  British  Museum  to  copy  some 
music.  She  had  had  nothing  to  do  for  a  long  time, 
and  it  was  a  pleasure  to  spend  the  morning  in  the 
museum;  and  she  w^ent  to  Dulwich  in  the  after- 
noon, delighted  with  her  transcriptions. 

And  while  he  praised  her  copying  she  waited  for 
an  opportunity  to  tell  him  she  was  giving  up  her 
flat  and  coming  to  live  with  him. 

He  played  the  bar  twice  over,  and  asked  if  she 
had  copied  it  correctly.  Yes,  she  was  sure  she  had 
copied  it  correctly. 

"  I  was  beginning  to  fear  that  your  artistic  life 
was  dead,  but  it  will  come  back  to  you.  I  remember 
the  time  when  a  piece  of  music  like  this  would  have 
interested  you.     Did  it  bore  you  to  copy  it  ?" 

"  I  liked  to  copy  it  because  I  was  copying  it  for 
you.  I  can  see  that  it  reflects  a  time  when  men's 
lives  must  have  been  very  beautiful." 

Her  father  was  sixty  years  of  age,  and  he  might 
live  until  he  was  eighty.  So  for  twenty  years  she 
would  play  the  old  music  and  sing  Elizabethan 
songs;  and  this  was  going  to  be  her  life,  however 
unlike  herself  it  might  seem. 


SISTEK    TERESA  107 

The  absurd  dish  of  hard  mutton  which  her  father 
could  not  eat  and  forgot  to  complain  about,  helped 
her  to  understand  that  the  siu>ple  duty  of  seeing  he 
had  wholesome  food  was  her  duty  before  all  other 
duties — her  supposed  duties  towards  art,  and  her 
duty  towards  the  nuns,  the  duty  she  had  lately  in- 
vented for  herself.  Ulick  came  in  after  dinner,  and 
she  wondered  how  he  could  drink  the  thick  mixture 
which  the  servant  put  on  the  table,  calling  it  coffee. 
They  did  not  waste  much  time  over  it.  Ulick  had 
brought  part  of  his  second  act  with  him,  and  she 
was  asked  to  sing  it.  "  Manuscript  music  at  sight," 
she  said,  and  though  it  was  Ulick's  music  she  could 
feel  no  interest  in  it.  Her  thoughts  were  often  car- 
ried back  to  the  nuns  and  she  forgot  her  cue.  Her 
inattention  annoyed  her  father,  and  she  wondered 
what  he  and  Ulick  were  arguing  about  so  hotly — 
about  a  dramatic  situation  she  thought,  and  all  the 
while  she  sat  thinking  what  Ulick  would  say  when 
she  told  him  that  she  had  been  intending  to  enter 
a  convent  for  six  months.  She  remembered  how 
sympathetic  he  had  been  when  he  returned  from 
Ireland ;  she  could  not  think  of  him  otherwise  than 
as  sympathetic;  but  the  monastic  ideal  conflicted 
as  much  with  his  ideas  as  it  did  with  Owen's  tastes. 

They  were  going  back  to  London  together,  and  on 
the  way  back  she  would  tell  him. 

"  I  cannot  wait  another  minute,"  she  said,  inter- 
rupting the  conversation,  "  I  shall  miss  my  last 
train.    Mr.  Innes  wished  her  to  stay,  but  she  felt  she 


108  SISTER    TERESA 

must  confide  to  Ulick  her  decision  to  live  with  her 
father  and  leave  the  convent  to  the  mercy  of  Provi- 
dence. 

They  hurried  away;  and  he  felt  she  had  some- 
thing to  confide  to  him,  and  she  told  him  the  mo- 
ment they  were  outside  what  had  happened. 

He  took  her  hands,  and  he  held  them,  but  he  held 
them  so  gently  and  looked  at  her  so  fondly  that  she 
felt  his  gentleness  to  be  the  most  exquisite  thing  in 
the  world. 

"  Ulick,  you  did  not  hear  me ;  I  said  I  was  sorry 
to  abandon  the  nuns,  I'm  going  to  live  with  father." 

"  You  will  go  to  your  father  for  a  while ;  you 
will  do  all  you  can  to  live  with  him,  but  something 
is  drawing  you  from  him,  Evelyn ;  your  life  is  not 
with  him,  and  we  cannot  live  except  where  our  life 
is." 

He  addressed  her  earnestly  about  her  soul,  saying 
that  the  grey  pieties  of  the  cloister  could  not  en- 
close all  there  is  of  God  on  earth  for  her.  And  be- 
coming suddenly  impassioned,  he  spoke  with  scorn 
of  those  who  renounce  a  great  deal  in  order  to  gain 
a  little ;  and  he  told  her  that  she  had  been  appointed 
to  express  spiritual  truths  in  art,  and  that  she  had 
done  this  with  extraordinary  power  and  purity,  and 
that  she  made  a  great  mistake  in  forsaking  the 
higher  medium  for  the  lower. 

He  asked  her  why  she  believed  that  God  was  more 
in  the  host  on  the  altar  than  in  the  cup  of  this  great 
lily,  and  leaning  over  a  pretty  paling  they  held  the 


SISTER    TERESA  109 

flower  in  their  hands.  She  might  have  answered, 
and  she  was  minded  to  answer,  that  if  we  believe 
God  is  everywhere  we  hardly  believe  that  he  is  any- 
where. But  she  refrained  from  argument,  knowing 
it  to  be  useless,  and  she  liked  to  hear  him,  even  when 
she  did  not  agree  with  him,  and  with  his  wide  grey 
eyes  looking  at  her  earnestly,  he  spoke  of  the  great 
joy  there  is  in  flinging  off  the  fear  of  creeds  and 
living  in  our  spiritual  instincts  and  in  our  bodily 
instincts;  and  he  asked  her  if  she  did  not  think 
she  could  serve  God  by  tendance  on  flowers,  and  by 
tendernesses  to  the  beasts  in  the  fields  and  the  beasts 
by  the  hearth. 

She  wished  he  would  forget  the  convent,  she 
wished  to  forget  it  herself;  it  were  better  to  do 
so  since  she  could  never  enter  it.  She  was  thinking 
now  of  the  beauty  of  the  night,  and  of  Iiim,  and  of 
his  ideas,  which,  though  they  were  not  hers,  were 
near  enough  to  her  to  be  appreciated  by  her;  for 
what  Ulick  said  might  easily  have  been  said  by 
Saint  Francis  d'Assisi. 

As  they  walked  along  the  moonlit  road  a  little  of 
his  music  came  back  to  her,  and  she  tried  to  remem- 
ber it,  but  it  was  hardly  rememberable.  But  it 
pleased  him  to  hear  her  try  to  remember  it,  it 
pleased  them  to  sit  on  a  bench  and  try  to  read  the 
score  by  the  light  of  the  moon.  The  blossoming 
branches  above  them  showered  white  dust  upon  the 
manuscript  in  their  hands. 

Art  was  to  Ulick  what  it  had  become  to  Evelyn, 


110  SISTER    TERESA 

a  means  rather  than  an  end,  and  seeing  her  soul 
in  peril  he  could  not  talk  to  her  of  his  music,  ob- 
sessed as  his  imagination  was  by  the  thought  that 
she  was  going  to  lose  her  soul  in  abstinences  and 
rituals. 

"  I  think  you  would  sooner  see  me  dead,  Ulick, 
than  in  a  convent." 

"  Many  times ;  there  is  something  unspeakably 
painful  in  the  death  of  a  soul." 

'^  I  know  what  you  mean,  that  piety  is  not  suffi- 
cient. Many  nuns  lose  themselves  in  mechanical 
pieties." 

"  Since  life  has  been  given  to  us  it  is  given  to  us 
for  acceptance  and  not  for  refusal.  You  will  lose 
your  soul,  Evelyn,  by  stripping  yourself  of  your 
womanhood  which  God  gave  you  to  serve  him  with, 
and  by  renouncing  your  art  which  was  given  you 
that  you  might  reveal  him  to  others.  You  will  lose 
your  soul  by  seeking  God  in  prayer-books  rather 
than  in  the  stars,  and  by  seeking  him  in  scrolls 
rather  than  in  the  sunset  and  in  the  morning  winds. 
The  convent  is  an  unspeakable  degradation  of  self, 
and  therefore  a  degradation  of  God.  Nothing  fills 
me  with  such  terror  as  the  convent." 

She  tried  to  speak  to  him  of  his  music,  but  he 
only  listened  for  a  moment. 

"  Music,"  he  said,  "  is  only  a  medium,  the  soul 
is  the  important  thing." 

To  keep  her  soul  he  said  she  must  fly  from  the 
city  where  men  lose  their  souls  in  the  rituals  of 


SISTEK    TERESA  111 

materialism.  He  must  go  with  her  to  the  pure 
country,  to  the  woods  and  to  the  places  where  the 
invisible  ones  whom  the  Druids  knew  ceaselessly 
ascend  and  descend  from  earth  to  heaven,  and 
heaven  to  earth,  in  flame-coloured  spirals.  He  told 
her  he  knew  of  a  house  by  a  lake  shore,  and  there 
they  might  live  in  communion  with  nature,  and  in 
the  fading  lights,  and  in  the  quiet  hollows  of  the 
w^oods  she  would  learn  more  of  God  than  she  could 
in  the  convent.  In  that  house  they  would  live,  and 
their  child,  if  the  Gods  gave  them  one,  would  un- 
fold among  the  influences  of  music  and  love  and 
long  traditions. 

"  Wandering  in  the  woods  and  underneath  the 
boughs  we  shall  know  that  the  great  immortal  pres- 
ences are  by  us,  and  the  peace  they  instil  into  our 
hearts  will  be  the  proof  that  they  applaud  our  flight 
from  priests  and  creeds." 

Every  star  that  the  eye  can  see  was  visible  that 
night,  and  the  interspaces  were  filled  with  a  pale 
bloom,  the  light  of  stars  so  distant  that  their  light 
is  but  a  milky  whiteness  on  the  sky. 

l^othing  had  been  said  for  some  while,  and  IJlick 
wondered  if  what  he  had  said  had  influenced  her  in 
the  least,  and  he  watched  for  some  sign;  but  she 
sat  without  speaking,  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  sky,  lost 
in  contemplation  of  the  extraordinary  diagram  ex- 
tending into  space  without  end.  Her  thoughts  re- 
turned suddenly  from  the  infinite  space,  and  she 
said, — 


112  SISTER    TERESA 

"  I  sbail  always  consider,  Ulick,  that  the  convent 
ideal  is  the  highest,  and  that  they  are  wisest  who 
choose  it." 

^^  But  you  give  no  reason,"  he  answered. 

"  Everything  is  faith  in  the  end,"  she  said ;  '^  all 
things  come  to  be  matters  of  faith." 

They  had  missed  their  last  train,  and  she  was 
glad  of  it.  She  said  she  would  not  go  back  to  Dow- 
lands,  for  on  this  dry,  windless  night  she  would 
enjoy  the  long  walk  under  the  stars,  and  he  must 
go  on  telling  her  his  dreams,  his  ideas,  and  his 
visions. 


XI 

One  morning  at  the  end  of  the  summer  her  father 
came  to  her  with  a  letter  in  his  hand. 

"  It  is  from  Rome.  You  will  never  guess  what 
it  is  about.  It  is  from  the  Pope  asking  me  to  go  to 
Rome  to  reform  the  singing  of  the  papal  choir." 

They  sat  down  to  consider  the  matter,  and  when 
everything  had  been  said  they  talked  it  all  over 
again.  The  invitation  had  come  through  Monsig- 
nor;  no  one  else  believed  in  the  reformation  of 
ecclesiastical  art,  no  one  else  cared. 

Walking  to  and  fro,  sometimes  stopping  to  look 
out  of  the  window,  Mr.  Innes  spoke  of  the  opposi- 
tion his  ideas  would  meet  with  in  Rome.  But  he 
would  be  given  a  free  hand,  otherwise  what  would  be 
the  use  of  bringing  him  all  the  way  from  London  ? 

"  When  do  you  go  to  Rome  ?" 

*^  Go  ?    Well,  I  suppose  at  once. " 

He  had  read  no  more  than  the  first  page  of  the 
Cardinal's  letter,  and  appeared  unable  to  collect  his 
thoughts  sufficiently  to  read  the  somewhat  difficult 
handwriting.  Evelyn  took  the  letter  out  of  his 
hand,  and  when  she  read  that  it  was  not  necessary 
for  him  to  go  to  Rome  before  the  autumn  a  shade 
of  disappointment  passed  over  his  face;  he  would 
have  preferred  that  the  Cardinal  had  said  that  he 
must  be  in  Rome  in  forty-eight  hours. 

S  113 


114  SISTER    TERESA 

Then,  as  if  ashamed  of  his  egoism,  he  asked  her 
when  she  was  going  back  to  the  stage.  The  naivete 
of  the  question  raised  a  smile  to  her  lips,  and  he 
said, — 

"  Oh,  I  know  you  won't  go  back  to  the  stage ;  but 
I  met  Hermann  Goetze  the  other  day,  and  he  said 
he  would  engage  you,  that  is  why  I  asked."  And 
he  stood  looking  at  her,  his  thoughts  divided  be- 
tween her  and  his  appointment. 

"  Yes,  father  dear,  I  feel  I  am  a  great  failure, 
and  I  am  sure  I  wish  I  were  different ;  but  you  see 
one  can't  change." 

She  stood  thinking  of  the  day  she  had  told  him 
she  was  going  away  with  Owen.  They  were  nearer 
to  each  other  then  than  now;  and  his  joy  at  his  ap- 
pointment reminded  her  of  her  delight  the  day 
Madame  Savelli  had  told  her  she  had  a  beautiful 
voice. 

"  But,  Evelyn,  what  about  the  American  tour  ? 
You  could  easily  make  the  money  the  nuns  need  in 
America." 

"  I  should  like  to  go  to  Rome  with  you,  dear." 

"  Well  that  would  be  very  nice,  and  I  might  give 
some  concerts  of  the  old  music  in  Rome." 

"  We  must  never  be  separated  again,  and  I  shall 
be  able  to  help  you  with  your  music." 

He  seemed  to  be  in  Rome  alreadv;  she  could 
read  in  his  face  that  he  was  thinking  of  the  choir 
that  awaited  the  rule  of  his  baton.  And  very 
soon  he  began  to  imagine  strange  intrigues,  con- 


SISTEK    TERESA  115 

spiracies  of  cardinals  to  keep  him  from  coming  to 
Rome. 

"  But,  Evelyn,  there  is  no  reason  why  we  should 
do  the  journey  together;  there  is  this  house  to  be 
sold,  and  you  will  have  to  get  rid  of  your  flat. 
Somebody  must  be  here  to  look  after  things;  I 
cannot  stay,  I  must  be  in  Rome  next  week.  Be- 
sides, I  am  going  to  stay  in  Rome  with  the  friars. 
You  would  not  like  to  stay  in  an  hotel  alone,  and 
it  would  be  expensive.  Far  better  to  wait  until  I 
find  rooms  for  you.  You  are  xu  no  hurry  to  get  to 
Rome,  I  suppose  ?  The  autumn  is  the  better  time — 
early  spring  the  best  time  of  all.  But  why  do  you 
stand  looking  at  me?  You  are  afraid  you  will  be 
lonely?  Then  come  with  me;  we  can  put  this 
business  into  the  hands  of  an  agent." 

She  tried  to  put  back  her  joy  but  her  heart  was 
overflowing.  She  was  going  to  the  convent  for  a 
while.  Her  escape  had  come  about  of  itself,  and  it 
pleased  her  to  look  upon  her  father's  appointment 
as  miraculous.  She  could  not  find  a  protest,  her 
lips  seemed  sealed,  to  see  him  was  to  know  that  he 
was  determined  to  go  to  Rome,  and  at  once;  and 
she  tried  to  silence  her  conscience  by  packing  his 
clothes,  by  arranging  his  journey  for  him,  by  giving 
him  a  list  of  the  places  where  he  might  dine  and 
breakfast,  and  where  he  might  break  the  journey 
if  he  pleased.  He  would  have  to  go  straight 
through  on  account  of  the  harpsichord,  and  she 
was  afraid  the  carriage  of  it  before  he  reached 


116  SISTER    TERESA 

Rome  would  nearly  equal  the  price  of  the  instru- 
ment. 

He  superintended  the  packing  of  his  viols  and 
lutes,  but  if  it  had  not  been  for  her  care  he  might 
have  forgotten  his  portmanteau.  She  packed  it 
herself  and  she  saw  that  it  was  labelled,  while  he 
looked  after  the  musical  part  of  his  luggage. 

Having  told  him  about  Avignon,  she  looked  up 
and  down  the  platform,  and  thought  she  had  for- 
gotten nothing;  and  while  she  told  him  that  each 
case  had  been  carefully  labelled,  the  train  began  to 
steam  out  of  the  station.  She  might  have  spoken 
to  the  guard.  But  he  only  went  as  far  as  Dover. 
The  guard  to  speak  to  was  the  guard  of  the  train 
from  Paris  to  Avignon.  She  knew  the  length  of  the 
journey,  and  her  father  had  promised  to  take  a 
sleeping-car. 

Rome  is  so  beautiful  in  the  autumn,  and  Owen 
had  only  shown  her  pagan  Rome;  there  was  also 
a  Christian  Rome,  and  she  began  to  consider  her 
own  journey  there.  She  was  bringing  with  her  all 
her  father's  books,  and  they  would  weigh  a  great 
deal,  and  some  silver  and  pictures.  Almost  the  last 
words  he  had  spoken  were  about  her  mother's  pict- 
ure, and  thinking  of  them,  she  remembered  his  let- 
ter to  Owen  Asher  six  years  ago : 

.  "  I  will  arrive  about  nine  with  the  big  harpsi- 
chord and  Evelyn." 

She  liked  him  none  the  less  for  his  absorption  in 
his  art;    she  envied  him  rather,  and  she  went  to 


SISTER    TERESA  llT 

Dowlands  thinking  of  the  great  case  the  harpsichord 
was  packed  in  and  the  difficulties  that  would  arise 
at  every  frontier  town.  Tt  had  been  packed  in  the 
music-room,  and  a  charwoman  was  sweeping  the 
litter  away  when  Evelyn  entered.  She  spoke  a  few 
words  to  the  woman  and  walked  through  the  empty 
rooms  thinking  of  the  passing  of  Dowlands.  Dow- 
lands had  played  quite  a  little  part  in  the  history 
of  art;  it  had  been  very  individual,  and  some  day 
she  thought  someone  would  write  its  history.  It 
would  be  a  very  interesting  history — her  father, 
her  mother  and  herself.  She  threw  the  windows 
open  and  let  in  the  air.  These  were  her  mother's 
class-rooms,  and  she  remembered  how  she  used  to 
sit  on  the  stairs  listening  to  the  singing,  and  how 
pleased  her  mother  had  been  one  day  when  she 
said^  though  she  was  only  four  at  the  time,  '^  But, 
mother,  that  lady  can't  sing  at  all."  A  shelf  in  the 
store-room  reminded  her  of  the  time  when  she  used 
to  Avonder  if  anyone  had  ever  eaten  as  many  apples 
as  she  wanted  to  eat,  and  a  patch  in  an  old  brocaded 
chair  of  her  mother's  maid — a  discreet  woman  who 
never  made  any  definite  statement,  but  who  was  full 
of  insinuations. 

She  found  two  Chelsea  figures  wliicli  she  had  not 
seen  for  many  years  in  a  forgotten  corner,  and  she 
tried  to  remember  if  the  old  servant  had  ever  men- 
tioned them  to  her.  The  shepherdess  had  lost  an 
arm,  and  the  bower  the  shepherd  stood  in  was  also 
a  little  broken ;   perhaps  that  was  why  they  had  been 


118  SISTER    TERESA 

put  away  in  the  store-room.  Thej  were  very  pretty 
figures,  but  she  would  not  take  them  to  Rome.  Her 
father  had  evidently  had  them  put  away. 

She  suddenly  discovered  a  book  which  they  had 
been  looking  for  for  many  years,  a  book  by  Morley 
on  the  singing  of  the  plain  chant ;  and  the  number 
of  pictures  dismayed  her.  Every  picture  repre- 
sented a  musician  playing  some  sort  of  old  instru- 
ment, and  so  long  as  these  were  correctly  drawn 
Mr.  Innes^s  artistic  taste  was  satisfied.  He  had 
given  her  explicit  instructions  regarding  all  these 
pictures,  indeed  for  some  time  he  had  been  uncer- 
tain if  he  would  not  take  them  with  him.  But  Eve- 
lyn had  at  length  dissuaded  him  by  exaggerating 
the  cost,  and  by  promising  not  to  forget  anything. 

The  portrait  of  our  father  or  our  mother  is  a  sort 
of  crystal  ball  into  which  we  look  in  the  hope  of  dis- 
covering our  destiny,  and  Evelyn  looked  a  long 
while  on  her  mother^s  cold  and  resolute  face.  It 
was  exactly  as  she  remembered  her — there  was  the 
thin  wide  mouth,  there  were  the  cold  eyes,  and  she 
could  hear  the  smooth,  even  voice,  and  she  remem- 
bered how  she  had  often  wondered  why  so  many 
men  had  been  in  love  with  her  mother.  Her  mother 
had  always  seemed  to  her  stern  and  cold,  the  oppo- 
site to  what  she  thought  she  was  herself,  though 
sometimes  she  fancied  she  was  a  little  cold.  It 
was  from  her  mother  she  had  got  her  voice — maybe 
her  temperament. 

She  turned  away  from  the  portrait,  perplexed, 


SISTEK    TEKESA  119 

and  stood  listening  to  the  woman  who  was  sweep- 
ing ;  and  feeling  she  must  talk  to  someone,  she  told 
her  what  she  was  to  say  to  the  auctioneer  who  would 
call  next  morning. 

Most  of  her  furniture  had  been  sold  at  Christie^s, 
and  the  few  things  that  were  left  she  had  resolved 
to  sell.  She  knew  how  little  influence  circumstance 
has  on  the  mind — nevertheless,  she  wished  to  rid 
herself  of  everything  that  reminded  her  of  her  dead 
life.  She  had  thought  of  taking  her  piano  to  the 
convent;  it  was  a  beautiful  instrument  and  the 
nuns  would  be  glad  of  it;  but  she  could  not  bring 
herself  to  take  it  with  her.  Merat  came  with  a  heap 
of  papers,  and  said, — 

"  Will  you  look  through  these,  mademoiselle,  and 
see  if  they  can  be  destroyed  ?" 

She  glanced  at  them  and  threw  them  into  the 
grate,  and  there  was  danger  of  the  kitchen  chimney 
catching  fire,  so  great  was  the  flare  of  the  papers. 

It  was  sad  to  think  that  she  would  never  wear  any 
pretty  underclothes  again,  nor  any  evening  dresses. 
One  of  her  stage  dresses  remained,  and  Merat  asked 
for  it,  saying,  "  Give  me  this  one,  mademoiselle ; 
I  saw  you  wear  it  in  ^  Lohengrin.'  "  Merat  said 
she  would  keep  the  dress  Evelyn  had  worn  at  Owen 
Asher's  ball  two  years  ago.  She  was  more  than 
kind — she  was  an  affectionate  human  being,  and 
Evelyn  was  much  touched. 

She  had  worn  this  hat  the  last  time  she  had 
walked  with  Owen  in  the  Park,  and  she  remem- 


120  SISTER    TERESA^ 

bered  having  worn  the  one  with  the  blue  feather  the 
evening  she  and  Owen  had  stood  looking  across  the 
Long  Water.  Merat  could  not  think  how  the  feather 
had  got  broken.  There  was  a  hat  she  had  not  worn 
for  many  years ;  it  took  her  back  to  St.  Petersburg, 
to  one  long  summer  evening  on  a  hilltop  overlook- 
ing the  !N'eva.  She  had  met  a  young  man  there  by 
appointment;  they  had  sat  looking  at  the  distant 
shipping,  and  he  had  admired  this  hat,  and  she 
could  not  think  why  she  had  never  worn  it  again. 

One  day  a  man  came  to  buy  her  clothes.  He 
offered  ten  shillings  apiece  for  her  dresses.  Merat 
protested,  and  he  produced  a  sack  and  threw  her 
dresses  in  without  even  thinking  of  rolling  them  up. 

Three  days  after  her  furniture,  her  books,  and  her 
china  were  sold  by  auction.  Ulick  bought  an  ink- 
stand and  a  score  of  "  Parsifal,"  and  a  china  bowl. 
She  could  see  he  was  very  much  moved,  and  when 
the  Jews  began  to  bid  for  her  writing-table,  he  said, 
"  "Why  should  we  stay  here  ?  The  sun  is  shining, 
let  us  go  into  the  Park." 

When  they  returned  the  workmen  were  removing 
the  furniture,  and  Evel^Ti  remembered  the  time  had 
come  when  they  must  say  good-bye. 

"  Merat  will  call  me  a  hansom.  I  must  get  to  the 
convent  before  five." 

"  Did  I  not  consent  to  go  and  live  with  my  father, 
and  how  do  you  explain  my  father's  appointment? 
Does  it  not  look  as  if  the  Gods  had  had  a  hand 
in  it?" 


SISTER    TERESA  121 

With  a  little  humour  in  his  voice,  which  made 
his  sadness  appear  all  the  more  real,  he  said, — 

"  I  cannot  believe  the  Gods  have  much  to  do  with 
convents.  My  Gods,  at  least,  are  only  concerned 
with  the  earth,  the  air,  and  the  souls  of  those  who 
surrender  themselves  up  to  these." 

"  Perhaps  you  are  right/'  she  said.  "  We  are  our 
own  Gods,  l^ow  I  must  really  go.  Will  you  carry 
my  portmanteau  downstairs  for  me  ?" 

Merat  came  downstairs  with  a  parasol ;  but  para- 
sols were  not  conventual,  and  Merat  said  she  would 
keep  it  till  mademoiselle  came  out  of  the  convent, 
for  Merat  had  agreed  to  go  into  another  situation 
only  upon  the  condition  that  she  might  return  to 
Evelyn  when  she  came  out  of  the  convent. 

She  waved  her  hand  to  Ulick,  and  he  seemed  so 
sorry  for  her  that  it  seemed  very  harsh  for  her  to 
be  glad,,  yet  she  was  glad.  Providence  was  de- 
ciding for  her.  Sooner  or  later  she  would  be  a  nun. 
IN'ow  that  she  was  on  her  way  to  the  convent  she  was 
quite  happy. 

She  w^ished  that  the  next  few  days  were  over. 
Then  she  would  have  settled  down  in  her  work,  and 
she  began  to  think  of  the  music  she  would  sing,  and 
of  the  pieces  which  would  be  most  popular. 


XII 

During  the  winter  and  spring  she  had  been  kept 
waiting  many  times  in  the  convent  parlour,  but  this 
time  the  Prioress  did  not  keep  her  waiting.  She 
passed  suddenly  into  the  room,  and  taking  Evelyn's 
hand  in  hers,  kissed  her,  in  convent  fashion,  on  both 
cheeks. 

"  So  you  have  really  come  to  us,  Evelyn,"  she 
said,  "  you  are  really  going  to  be  one  of  my  chil- 
dren ?'' 

"  Well,  I  have  come  to  try.  Reverend  Mother." 

"  But  tell  me,  Evelyn,"  said  the  little  old  nun, 
laying  her  hand  on  Evelyn's  knee,  and  looking 
straight  into  her  face,  "  are  you  quite  happy  at 
coming  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  am  quite  happy,  for  I  know  that  I  am 
doing  what  I  was  appointed  to  do,  and  there  is 
always  happiness  in  doing  that.  I'm  not  frightened 
as  I  used  to  be.  I  lived  in  a  state  of  fear,  but  to- 
day I  don't  feel  afraid,  though  I  may  be  coming 
here  for  good." 

"  Indeed,  I  hope  you  are ;  and  I  may  tell  you  I 
never  wished  any  postulant  to  succeed  as  I  wish 
you  to." 

"  Dear  Reverend  Mother,  you  are  much  too  kind 

to  me,  I  shall  never  deserve  all  your  kindness ;  but  a 
122 


SISTER    TERESA  123 

vocation  is  such  a  mysterious  thing.  I  have  come 
here  because  I  feel  that  God  has  sent  me  to  help  you 
and — well,  because  I  feel  that  outside  the  convent 
there  is  nothing  to  hold  on  to." 

She  wondered  at  her  own  instability  of  character, 
and  this  very  instability  in  the  next  moment 
seemed  to  her  like  a  more  elaborate  design  of  life 
than  she  had  imagined.  Looking  down  the  road 
which  had  brought  her  to  the  present  moment  of  her 
life,  many  things  which  had  seemed  devious  and 
tangled  now  seemed  simple  and  plain.  She  must, 
just  as  the  Reverend  Mother  said,  put  herself  into 
the  hands  of  God;  and  she  listened,  deeply  inter- 
ested, for  the  Prioress  said  that  very  often  those 
who  least  desired  a  vocation  were  irresistibly  called 
to  a  religious  life. 

The  old  nun  spoke  out  of  the  remembrance  of  a 
long  life  lived  and  meditated.  Her  pale  blue  eyes 
were  fixed  on  Evelyn,  and  they  looked  so  weary 
with  wisdom  that  Evelyn  watched  them,  striving 
to  read  in  them  the  secret,  the  death  of  some  loved 
one;  and  in  striving  to  pierce  the  enigma  she  felt 
herself  drawn  into  a  new  influence.  The  sensation 
was  not  unknown  to  her,  and  she  remembered  sud- 
denly Lady  Duckle  and  the  French  cafe. 

"  You  must  not  allow  yourself,  my  dear  child,  to 
think  that  you  will  not  succeed.  We  shall  all  pray 
for  you,  and  I  feel  that  the  will  of  Heaven  is  that 
you  should  succeed." 

Mother  Hilda  and  Mother  Philippa  came  in; 


124  SISTER    TERESA 

and  they,  too,  kissed  her  affectionately,  and  their 
manner  showed  her  that  they  knew  she  had  decided 
to  enter  the  novitiate :  they  treated  her  as  a  member 
of  the  community,  but  she  could  see  they  were  not 
of  one  mind.  The  Prioress  and  Mother  Philippa 
had  been  in  favour  of  admitting  her ;  Mother  Hilda 
seemed  a  little  doubtful. 

That  very  morning  Mother  Hilda  had  asked  if  it 
were  wise  to  admit  a  girl  into  the  novitiate  who  con- 
fessed that  she  was  entering  the  religious  life  some- 
what as  an  experiment.  Even  with  all  that  was  at 
stake,  was  not  the  risk  too  great  ?  Might  not  Miss 
Innes's  presence  have  a  demoralising  effect  on  the 
other  novices — simple,  pious  girls  with  no  knowl- 
edge of  the  world?  And  what  good  would  her 
money  be  to  them  if  the  spirit  of  the  house  were  to 
suffer?  But  her  scruples  had  been  overborne  by 
the  Prioress,  and  her  objection  that  she  would  find 
Evelyn's  moods  very  hard  to  understand  was  not 
entertained  by  the  Prioress. 

The  Prioress  was  aware  of  her  personal  influence 
over  others,  and  she  did  not  believe  that  she  might 
fail  to  mould  Evelyn  according  to  her  idea.  Mother 
Philippa's  motherly  heart  had  been  won  by  the 
singer  the  first  time  they  had  walked  together  up 
and  down  St.  Peter's  Path.  Her  perception  of 
Evelyn's  past  life  was  less  clear  than  Mother 
Hilda's,  but  she  divined  a  lonely  soul,  and  had  gone 
forth  to  meet  her  on  the  road,  as  it  were ;  and  it  was 
characteristic  of  her  to  think  that  all  things  came 


SISTEE    TERESA  125 

right  in  the  end.  Moreover,  they  would  pray,  and 
her  regret,  if  she  had  a  regret,  was  that  her  pleasant 
little  chats  with  Evelyn  in  tlic  parlour  must  now 
come  to  an  end;  and  she  thought  of  the  rare  op- 
portunities she  would  have  of  talking  to  her  during 
her  noviceship.  All  they  were  thinking  about  her 
seemed  afloat  in  the  manner  of  the  three  nuns  as 
they  gathered  round  their  new  Sister.  Mother 
Hilda  diffident.  Mother  Philippa  expansive,  and  the 
Prioress  confident  in  the  strength  of  her  wisdom. 

"  So  you  have  decided  to  enter  the  religious 
life?"  Mother  Hilda  asked,  with  a  note  of  insist- 
ence in  her  quiet  voice. 

"  I  have  come  to  try,"  Evelyn  said,  "  and  I  am 
going  to  stay,  if  my  father  does  not  call  me  to 
Rome." 

"  I  have  not  told  you,"  said  Mother  Philippa, 
"  how  delighted  I  am  that  you  have  come.  I  always 
believed  you  would  come,  didn't  I,  Reverend 
Mother?  and  I  began  to  pray  for  it  long  before 
anyone  else.  I  seemed  to  see  the  hand  of  Provi- 
dence in  your  coming  here.  We  shall  have  your 
beautiful  voice  to  sing  for  us  every  day  at  Bene- 
diction. But  we  must  not  pay  you  compliments 
now  you  are  going  to  be  a  nun.  Do  have  some  cake, 
my  dear.  You  look  tired  after  j'our  long  drive;" 
and  the  kind  old  nun  began  fussing  round  the  tea 
things. 

Suddenly  it  seemed  that  there  was  nothing  more 
to  say,  and  the  Prioress  put  the  question  to  Evelyn 


126  SISTER    TERESA 

if  she  would  prefer  to  be  a  visitor  until  to-morrow, 
or  to  go  into  the  novitiate  at  once.  Evelyn  cried 
impulsively  that  she  would  like  to  begin  at  once, 
and  the  Reverend  Mother  asked  Mother  Hilda  to 
take  her  charge  to  her  cell. 

"  And,  Mother  Philippa,  will  you  see  that  Eve- 
lyn's box  is  sent  upstairs  at  once?  You  will  have 
just  time,  Evelyn,  to  get  into  your  dress  and  veil 
before  supper;    it  is  half-past  five." 

She  followed  Mother  Hilda  into  the  hall,  and 
through  the  swing  door,  past  which  she  had  never 
been,  and  down  the  short  broad  corridor,  out  of 
which  the  main  rooms  of  the  ground  floor  opened. 

"  That  is  the  refectory,"  Mother  Hilda  said ;  and 
Evelyn  saw  the  long  narrow  tables  and  tin  plates; 
"  and  this,"  Mother  Hilda  added,  turning  to  a  little 
winding  staircase  built  in  an  angle  of  the  passage, 
"  is  the  way  to  the  novitiate." 

At  the  top  of  the  staircase  there  was  a  short  pas- 
sage, with  a  door  at  the  further  end,  and  several 
doors  on  either  side.  They  were  of  polished  pine, 
and  not  of  mahogany,  and  she  saw  that  now  they 
had  left  the  Georgian  house,  and  that  this  was  the 
new  wing. 

"  That  is  the  novitiate  at  the  end  of  the  passage, 
and  these  are  the  novices'  cells.  You  are  to  be  next 
to  me." 

The  little  narrow  iron  bedstead,  without  curtains 
and  covered  with  a  check  cotton  counterpane,  nearly 
"Slled  the  space,  and  there  was  nothing  else  in  the 


SISTER    TERESA  127 

room  save  a  wooden  chair,  a  small  washstand  near 
the  window,  with  a  cupboard  underneath.  It  was 
in  this  cupboard  she  would  keep  her  clothes.  The 
colourless,  distempered  walls  were  bare,  save  for 
the  crucifix  over  the  bed,  and  the  bare  window  did 
not  look  over  the  garden  and  the  Surrey  hills,  but 
northward  towards  a  tall  bank  of  trees,  and  the 
apse  of  the  church  partly  intercepted  the  view. 

Reading  in  her  silence  some  inward  disappoint- 
ment, Mother  Hilda  thought  she  had  better  give 
Evelyn  something  to  do  at  once. 

"  Don't  you  think,  Evelyn,  you  had  better  un- 
pack your  things  ?     Shall  I  help  you  ?" 

''  Thank  you ;  but  I  have  only  a  few  things,  just 
what  you  told  me.  The  greater  part  of  my  box  is 
full  of  music." 

She  unfolded  her  little  convent  trousseau  before 
the  eyes  of  the  Mother  Mistress.  Her  calico  night- 
dress, so  plain  that  she  had  had  to  have  it  made  for 
her;  and  Merat  had  nearly  wept  at  the  idea  of 
mademoiselle  wearing  anything  so  coarse.  Her 
petticoats  were  frill-less,  but  on  unpacking  her  black 
merino  dress  she  discovered  that  Merat  at  the  last 
moment  had  added  dainty  little  velvet  cuffs,  and 
Evelyn,  in  her  desire  to  immolate  her  vanity  on 
the  very  threshold  of  the  convent,  was  genuinely 
vexed. 

"  Oh,  Mother,  I  expressly  told  Merat  to  make  the 
sleeves  quite  plain,  but  I  can  take  the  cuffs  off  in 
an  instant." 


128  SISTER    TERESA 

'^  They  are  not  usual,  but  there  is  no  necessity  for 
taking  them  off.'' 

'^  Oh,  yes,  but  I  must  take  them  off,''  and  in  a 
moment  she  had  found  a  pair  of  scissors,  and  cut 
through  the  stitches.  "  It  is  entirely  my  maid's 
fault.     IIow  could  she  have  been  so  stupid  ?" 

The  very  newness  of  her  plain  linen  collars  made 
them  seem  out  of  place,  but  Mother  Hilda  did  not 
seem  to  think  there  was  anything  amiss,  and  left 
Evelyn  to  change  her  dress,  promising  to  return  for 
her  in  a  few  minutes. 

She  changed  her  dress  almost  gaily,  thinking  that 
she  had  not  come  to  the  convent  for  ever,  only  till 
her  father  wanted  her — that  would  be  in  three 
months,  maybe  six,  and  in  that  time  she  hoped  her 
mission  would  be  accomplished.  And  it  was  a  very 
demure  Evelyn,  in  her  straight  black  gown,  and  her 
dark  gold  hair  neatly  brushed  back  off  her  face,  who 
was  waiting  for  Mother  Hilda  when  she  returned, 
bringing  with  her  a  white  cap  and  black  veil,  and 
a  prim  little  black  cashmere  cape. 

"  Will  you  come  with  me  to  dear  Mother's  room  ?" 
said  the  novice  mistress ;  ^'  she  always  gives  the 
postulants  the  cap  and  veil  herself.  It  is  the  out- 
ward sign  that  they  are  admitted  as  aspirants  to  the 
religious  life." 

The  Prioress's  room  was  on  the  ground  floor,  and 
its  long  Erencli  windows  opened  on  to  the  terrace 
walk.  Once  no  doubt  it  had  been  a  boudoir;  and 
catching  sight  of  the  curiously  carved  scrolls  on  the 


SISTEE    TEKESA  129 

tall  wooden  mantelpiece,  Evelyn  thought  of  the 
women  who  had  sat  there  dreaming  of  their  lovers, 
and  waiting  for  them.  !N'ow  it  was  the  workroom 
of  a  busy  woman.  The  crowded  writing-table,  on 
which  stood  a  beautiful  crucifix  in  yellow  ivory, 
occupied  the  space  by  the  window,  and  papers  and 
tin  boxes  were  piled  in  one  corner.  There  was 
no  carpet,  and  the  one  armchair  was  worn  and 
shabby.  There  were  flowers  in  vases  and  bowls, 
and  in  a  large  cage  canaries  uttered  their  piercing 
songs. 

"  I  like  your  room,  Reverend  Mother ;  will  you 
let  me  come  and  see  you  here  sometimes  now  I  am  a 
nun  V 

"  This  is  where  I  do  all  my  scolding ;  perhaps 
you  won't  Like  it  when  you  are  sent  for,"  said  the 
Prioress,  but  she  smiled  at  Evelyn  when  she  said  it, 
and  the  words  lost  their  severity.  "N"ow  we  must 
hide  all  this  fair  hair  under  a  little  cap." 

Evelyn  knelt  in  front  of  the  Prioress,  so  that  the 
little  old  nun  could  put  the  white  cap  on  her  head, 
and  pin  the  black  veil  over  it.  When  she  had  done 
this,  she  drew  Evelyn  to  her  and  kissed  her. 

"  N^ow  you  look  like  my  own  child,  with  all  your 
worldly  vanities  hidden  away.  I  believe  Monsignor 
Mostyn  would  hardly  know  his  penitent  in  her  new 
dress.  And  now,"  she  went  on,  "  let  us  go  to  the 
chapel  together  and  thank  our  dear  Lord  that  he 
has  brought  you  to  his  feet.  Give  me  your  arm, 
my  dear  child,  I  am  not  very  strong  to-day." 


130  SISTER    TERESA 

She  laid  a  faint  hand  on  Evelyn's  arm^  and  thej 
walked  slowly  down  the  corridor  to  the  door  leading 
to  the  nuns'  choir,  and  Evelyn  was  conscious  of  a 
sudden  new  growth  of  affection  for  this  frail  old 
woman  whose  spirit  stood  undaunted  amid  much 
adversity.  She  followed  the  nun  into  the  choir  of 
the  church,  and  found  herself  for  the  first  time 
on  the  inner  side  of  the  high  iron  grille.  The  Prior- 
ess knelt  in  her  stall,  and  Evelyn  remained  kneeling 
on  the  floor  beside  her,  and  those  few  moments 
of  silent  prayer  seemed  to  unite  the  two  women 
closely  in  the  purpose  which  had  brought  them 
together. 

Mother  Hilda  had  explained  to  Evelyn  that  thje 
community  assembled  for  supper  immediately  after 
the  Angelus.  All  the  customs  were  unknown  to  her, 
and  more  nervous  than  she  had  ever  felt  before,  she 
placed  herself  at  the  head  of  the  procession  next 
to  a  giggling  novice.  The  refectory  doors  were 
thrown  open,  the  Mother  Prioress  began  the  pro- 
cessional psalm  in  Latin,  the  Sisters  repeated  the 
alternate  verses.  Evelyn  felt  the  novice  nudge  her, 
and  they  began  to  walk  slowly  towards  the  refectory, 
their  eyes  fixed  on  the  ground.  In  the  middle  of 
the  long  room  Evelyn  and  the  novice  stopped  and 
bowed  to  the  great  crucifix  which  hung  between  the 
windows  over  the  table  of  the  Superior.  Then  they 
placed  themselves  in  front  of  one  of  the  tables  at 
the  lower  end  of  the  room;  they  were  followed  by 
the  rest  of  the  novices;    the  lay  Sisters  occupied  a 


SISTER    TERESA  131 

similar  position  opposite ;  the  upper  portions  of  the 
table  were  reserved  for  the  Choir  Sisters,  and  the 
places  of  the  three  Superiors  were  in  front  of  the 
table  at  the  top  of  the  room.  The  Mother  Prioress 
then  recited  the  larger  portion  of  the  grace.  There 
were  responses  and  versicles,  and  these  were  re- 
peated bj  the  Sisters.  Tlie  opening  sentence  of  the 
paternoster  was  spoken  by  the  Prioress,  and  it  was 
continued  in  silence  by  all,  and  at  the  Gloria  all 
bowed  their  heads. 

Then  one  of  the  Sisters  slipped  out  of  her  place, 
and  kneeling  before  the  Prioress  murmured  a  few 
Latin  words,  to  which  was  given  a  Latin  reply; 
she  then  went  to  a  high  reading  desk  in  the  corner 
by  the  Superior's  table  and  read  aloud  a  few  verses 
from  Holy  Scripture.  When  the  reader  had  fin- 
ished the  whole  community  responded  Deo  gratias; 
and  all  went  to  their  places  in  silence,  the  novices 
passing  this  time  in  front  of  Evelyn.  She  found 
herself  at  the  bottom  of  the  long  wooden  bench,  be- 
hind the  polished  oak  table. 

In  each  place  there  was  an  enamelled  plate  and 
a  check  blue  and  white  napkin,  and  a  large  china 
mug.  Two  Sisters  went  round  with  cans  in  their 
hands,  and  filled  every  mug  with  hot,  weak,  sugary 
tea.  A  large  platter  piled  high  with  slices  of  bread 
and  butter  was  passed  down  the  table,  and  above  the 
clatter  of  the  knives  upon  the  tin  plates  the  voice 
of  the  reader  was  heard ;  it  was  a  monotonous  chant, 
and  the  subject  of  the  reading  Evelyn  gathered  to  be 


132  SISTER    TERESA 

the  life  of  some  female  saint,  famous  for  her  aus- 
terities. 

It  was  a  disappointment  to  her  that  she  could  only 
see  what  was  trivial  and  prosaic,  and  a  long  line  of 
silent  meals  stretched  out  before  her  through  days 
and  years,  and  she  could  not  eat.  Suddenly  she  was 
astonished  by  Sister  Veronica's  appearance  by  her 
side — slim  and  straight  like  a  figure  in  an  old  Ital- 
ian picture  she  stood  by  her,  holding  in  her  hand  a 
plate  on  which  there  was  a  poached  egg.  ITone  of 
the  Sisters  were  eating  poached  eggs,  and  Evelyn 
nearly  refused  it,  but  Veronica  smiled,  saying  under 
her  breath,  "  You  must  eat  it,"  and  she  put  the  plate 
down  before  Evelyn  with  a  resolute  little  gesture. 

Soon  after  a  very  plain  cake  was  handed  round, 
and  the  eating  of  this  cake  was  perhaps  the  hardest 
part  of  the  meal.  She  hesitated  a  moment,  and  then 
decided  that  the  eating  of  this  cake  should  be  her 
first  act  of  mortification,  and  she  tried  to '  avoid 
watching  the  novice  beside  her,  who  she  noticed  had 
eaten  four  slices  of  bread  and  butter,  and  was  en- 
joying her  cake.  As  the  nuns  finished,  they  folded 
their  hands  and  sat  with  eyes  cast  down.  The  mo- 
notonous voice  of  the  reader  droned  on,  until  sud- 
denly, with  a  little  wooden  hammer,  the  Prioress 
struck  the  table,  giving  the  signal  to  rise.  The  long 
grace  was  repeated,  with  the  necessary  variations, 
and  the  procession  passed  slowly  out  in  the  same 
order  as  it  had  entered.  ' 

In  the  passage  the  novice  at  Evelyn's  elbow  whis- 


SISTER    TERESA  133 

pered  to  her  to  go  up  the  novitiate  stairs.  The 
voice  of  the  professed  nuns  died  away  as  they  turned 
towards  their  own  community  room;  and  it  was  a 
little  party  of  five  that  walked  ahead  of  Mother 
Hilda  into  the  room  at  the  end  of  the  novitiate 
passage. 


XIII 

They  knelt  before  the  large  crucifix  which  occu- 
pied the  centre  of  one  of  the  walls. 

Mother  Hilda  recited  the  Litany  of  our  Ladj,  and 
when  it  was  done,  and  thej  had  risen  to  their  feet, 
she  said, — 

"  Now,  Evelyn,  you  must  be  introduced  to  your 
sisters — Sister  Barbara  I  think  you  have  met,  as 
she  sings  in  the  choir.  This  is  Sister  Angela;  this 
tall  maypole  is  Sister  Winifred,  and  this  little  being 
here  is  Sister  Jerome,  who  was  the  youngest  till 
you  came.  Are  you  not  pleased,  Jerome,  to  have 
one  younger  than  yourself  ?"  The  novices  said  how 
do  you  do,  and  looked  shy  and  awkward  for  a  min- 
ute, but  their  interest  in  Evelyn  was  forgotten  for 
the  moment  in  their  anxiety  to  know  whether  recrea- 
tion was  to  be  spent  indoors  or  out. 

"  Mother,  we  may  go  out,  maynH  we  ?  Oh,  thank 
you  so  much,  it  is  such  a  lovely  evening.  We  need 
not  wear  cloaks,  need  we  ?  Oh,  that  is  all  right,  just 
our  garden  shoes ;"  and  there  was  a  general  scurry 
to  the  cells  for  shoes,  whilst  Evelyn  and  Mother 
Hilda  made  their  way  downstairs  and  by  another 
door  into  the  still  summer  evening. 

"  How  lovely  it  is,"  Evelyn  exclaimed,  and  she 
134 


SISTEK    TERESA  135 

felt  that  if  she  and  Mother  Hilda  could  have  spent 
the  recreation  hour  together,  her  first  convent  even- 
ing might  have  been  in  a  way  happy.  But  the 
chattering  novices  had  caught  them  up,  and  when 
they  were  sitting  all  a-row  on  a  bench  or  grouped 
on  a  variety  of  little  wooden  stools,  they  asked  her 
questions  as  to  her  sensations  in  the  refectory,  and 
Evelyn  felt  a  little  jarred  by  their  familiarity. 

"  Were  you  not  frightened  when  you  felt  yourself 
at  the  head  of  the  procession  ?  I  was,"  said  Wini- 
fred. 

"  But  you  didnH  get  through  nearly  so  well  as 
Sister  Evelyn;  you  turned  the  wrong  way  at  the 
end  of  the  passage,  and  Mother  had  to  go  after 
you,"  said  Sister  Angela,  "  we  thought  you  were 
going  to  run  away,  and  they  went  into  the  details 
as  to  how  they  had  felt  on  their  arrival,  and  various 
little  incidents  were  recalled,  illustrating  the  experi- 
ence of  previous  postulants,  and  these  were  pro- 
ductive of  much  hilarity. 

"  \Miat  did  you  all  think  of  the  cake  ?"  said  Sister 
Barbara,  suddenly. 

^^  Was  it  Angela's  cake  ?"  asked  Mother  Hilda. 
"  Angela,  I  really  must  congratulate  you,  you  will 
be  quite  a  distinguished  chef  in  time." 

Sister  Angela  blushed  with  delight,  saying,  "  Yes, 
I  made  it  yesterday.  Mother;  but  of  course  Sister 
Rufina  stood  over  me  to  see  that  I  didn't  forget  any- 
thing." 

"  Ah,  well,  I  don't  think  I  cared  very  much  for 


136  SISTER    TERESA 

the  flavouring,"  said  Sister  Barbara  in  pondering 
tones. 

"  You  seemed  to  me  to  be  enjoying  it  very  much 
at  the  time,"  said  Sister  Evelyn,  joining  the  con- 
versation for  the  first  time,  and  when  she  added 
that  Sister  Barbara  had  eaten  four  slices  of  bread 
and  butter,  the  laugh  turned  against  Barbara,  and 
everyone  was  hilarious.  It  was  evident  that  Sister 
Barbara^s  appetite  was  considered  an  excellent  joke 
in  the  novitiate. 

Evelyn  marvelled  that  grown-up  women  should 
be  so  easily  amused ;  and  yet  was  their  conversation 
more  silly  than  that  of  a  London  drawing-room  ?  It 
was  only  that  it  was  a  different  kind  of  silliness,  to 
which  she  had  not  yet  grown  accustomed ;  and  with 
a  sinking  heart  Evelyn  tried  her  best  to  keep  up 
a  polite  interest  in  the  recreation.  The  novices  were 
all  dressed  alike,  but  Evelyn  had  quickly  decided 
that  besides  Sister  Veronica  only  Sister  Winifred 
was  a  choir  Sister;  the  others  were  clearly  lay 
Sisters.  Sister  Barbara  and  Sister  Angela  were 
very  young — not  more  than  one  or  two  and  twenty ; 
Sister  Jerome  looked  over  thirty  and  had  a  plain,' 
sad  face.  They  worked  while  they  talked,  and  Eve- 
lyn had  to  confess  that  she  hated  needlework,  and 
had  never  learnt  to  knit.  They  told  her  that  she 
had  better  begin  at  once  or  she  would  have  no  stock- 
ings. It  was  Sister  Barbara  who  was  told  to  teach 
her,  but  as  neither  needles  nor  wool  was  available 


SISTEK    TEKESA  137 

at  the  moment,  the  lesson  was  postponed  till  next 
recreation. 

Presently  Sister  Veronica  came  running  down 
the  garden  path  and  joined  the  little  group;  she 
had  waited  at  supper  and  had  had  to  have  her  meal 
afterwards. 

^^  I  came  as  quickly  as  I  could,"  she  said,  "  for 
I  didn^t  wish  to  miss  all  of  Sister  Evelyn's  first 
recreation,"  and  she  looked  at  Evelyn  with  such 
a  tender  little  smile  of  welcome  that  Evelyn  was 
cheered,  and  when  Mother  Hilda  said  Veronica 
might  sit  next  her,  and  pulled  up  a  little  wooden 
stool  for  her,  she  felt  almost  absurdly  grateful. 

The  little  babble  and  talk  meandered  on,  checked 
and  guided  by  Mother  Hilda,  who  saved  it  from 
falling  into  absolute  silliness.  And  presently,  by 
a  clever  turn  given  by  her  to  the  conversation,  they 
were  all  talking  of  Italy,  and  Evelyn  found  that 
Mother  Hilda  knew  Eome  and  Milan  quite  well, 
and  she  herself  was  encouraged  to  talk  of  her  travels, 
whilst  the  novices  listened  open-eyed.  Suddenly  the 
bell  rang  out  its  warning  notes  and  the  recreation 
hour  had  come  to  an  end.  Mother  Hilda  stood  up 
and  began  the  De  Profundis,  the  Sisters  repeating 
the  alternate  verses.  The  beauty  of  the  prayer,  of 
this  appeal  for  the  peace  of  departed  souls  sounded 
strangely  beautiful  in  the  still  evening  air;  its 
beauty  entered  Evelyn's  heart,  and  in  a  thrill  of 
anticipation  she  seemed  to  foresee  that  this  cloister 
life  would  mean  a  great  deal  to  her  one  day.     She 


138  SISTER    TERESA 

seemed  to  divine  the  spiritual  fulness  which  lies 
beneath  the  childish  triviality  which  had  tried  her 
all  the  evening;  and,  kneeling  among  the  com- 
munity in  church,  she  began  to  understand  the  im- 
portance a  church  is  to  a  community;  how  much 
it  means  to  each  individual  member,  and  how,  on 
entering  her  church,  each  enters  the  mysterious  and 
profound  life  of  prayer.  She  felt  she  was  no  longer 
a  solitary  soul  fighting  a  lonely  battle;  now  she 
was  a  member  of  a  spiritual  community,  and  her 
wandering  thoughts  would  be  drawQ  into  the 
streams  of  petitions  going  up  to  God.  A  nun  whis- 
pered that  she  need  not  stay  for  the  night  office, 
and  she  refrained  from  saying  that  it  was  now 
eight,  and  that  for  many  years  she  had  not  been 
to  bed  till  past  midnight.  This  was  her  first  act  of 
obedience. 

"  This  mattress,^'  she  said  to  herself  as  she  turned 
restlessly,  "  is  very  trying,  but  it  is  a  means  to  an 
end,"  and  she  foresaw  a  wider  life  than  she  could 
have  known  in  the  world. 


XIV 

There  are  hours  of  the  day  which  are  unknown 
to  those  who  live  in  the  world,  and  six  o'clock  in 
the  morning  was  an  hour  unknown  to  Evelyn.  It 
was  at  that  hour  she  awaked  from  a  shallow,  restless 
sleep,  and  heard  with  a  drowsy  hrain  that  she  would 
be  expected  in  chapel  in  half  an  hour.  She  rolled 
herself  out  of  bed,  and  still  only  half  conscious,  she 
hurried  through  her  simple  dressing.  Her  small 
basin  and  water-jug  seemed  to  her  miserably  insuffi- 
cient, but  her  desire  not  to  be  late  for  chapel  saved 
her  from  further  reflection  regarding  excessive 
cleanliness. 

The  convent  day  began  with  half  an  hour  for 
meditation,  and  this  was  just  over  when  Evelyn 
entered  the  chapel.  At  half-past  six  there  were 
morning  prayers,  followed  by  Prime  and  Tierce; 
at  seven  Mass  and  Exposition,  and  at  a  quarter 
to  eight  breakfast;  and  a  breakfast  of  weak  tea 
and  bread  and  butter  made  Evelyn  feel  that  before 
the  end  of  the  week  she  would  be  back  in  her  Bays- 
water  flat.  But  taking  her  purpose  between  her 
teeth,  she  determined  not  to  yield  so  easily.  She 
followed  Mother  Hilda  and  the  novices  to  the  novi- 
tiate, and  tied  on  the  blue  apron  that  was  given  to 

her.     Every  novice  was  expected  to  make  her  own 

139 


140  SISTER    TERESA 

bed,  and  tidy  and  sweep  out  her  cell  before  she 
did  any  other  work.  They  divided  between  them 
such  work  as  dusting  the  novitiate  and  sweeping 
the  stairs  and  passage,  and  keeping  the  Mother  Mis- 
tress's cell  in  cleanliness  and  order. 

Evelyn  had  done  plenty  of  housework  in  her 
younger  days,  but  she  seemed  to  have  forgotten 
how  to  use  a  broom,  and  the  making  of  her  bed 
had  exhausted  her,  and  she  felt  more  inclined  to 
get  into  it  than  to  follow  the  Mother  Mistress  down 
to  Sext  and  None  at  nine  o'clock.  She  managed, 
however,  to  overcome  her  weakness,  and  she  and 
Sister  Winifred  and  Sister  Veronica  preceded 
Mother  Hilda  in  the  cloister,  where  they  joined 
the  rest  of  the  community.  After  Sext  and  !N'one 
a  pause  came,  and  none  too  soon  did  it  come  for 
Evelyn,  who  felt  she  was  giving  way;  and  per- 
ceiving her  condition  the  Mother  Mistress  asked 
her  to  come  to  the  novitiate.  Evelyn  felt  that  to 
sit  in  a  cheerful  sunny  room,  with  windows  look- 
ing on  to  the  garden,  hearing  the  voice  of  the  quiet 
nun  speaking  to  her,  was  the  pleasantest  hour  she 
could  hope  for. 

"  The  centre  of  our  life,"  said  Mother  Hilda, 
"  is  the  perpetual  adoration  of  the  blessed  Sacra- 
ment exposed  on  the  altar.  Our  life  is  a  life  of 
expiation ;  we  expiate  by  our  prayers  and  our  pen- 
ances and  our  acts  of  adoration  the  many  insults 
which  are  daily  flung  at  our  divine  Lord  by  those 
who    not  only  disobey  his  commandments  but  deny 


SISTER    TERESA  141 

his  very  presence  on  our  altars.  To  our  prayers 
of  expiation  we  add  prayers  of  intercession ;  we 
pray  for  the  many  people  in  this  country  outside 
the  faith  who  offend  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ  more 
from  ignorance  than  from  malice.  All  our  little 
acts  of  mortification  are  offered  with  this  intention. 
From  morning  Mass  until  Benediction,  our  chapel, 
as  you  know,  is  never  left  empty  for  a  single  in- 
stant of  the  day;  two  silent  watchers  kneel  before 
the  blessed  Sacrament,  offering  themselves  in  ex- 
piation of  the  sins  of  others.  This  watch  before  the 
blessed  Sacrament  is  the  chief  duty  laid  upon  the 
members  of  our  community.  ^N'othing  is  ever  al- 
lowed to  interfere  with  it.  Unfailing  punctuality 
is  asked  from  everyone  in  being  in  the  chapel  at 
the  moment  her  watch  begins,  and  no  excuse  is 
accepted  from  those  who  fail  in  this  respect.  Our 
idea  is  that  all  through  the  day  a  ceaseless  stream 
of  supplication  should  mount  to  heaven,  that  not 
for  a  single  instant  should  there  be  a  break  in  the 
work  of  prayer.  Our  Sisters  are  taught  to  feel 
that,  next  to  receiving  Holy  Communion,  this  hour 
of  prayer  and  meditation  in  the  presence  of  our 
Lord  is  the  central  factor  in  their  spiritual  life, 
the  axis  on  which  their  spiritual  progress  revolves. 
If  our  numbers  permitted  it,  we  should  have  per- 
petual adoration  by  day  and  night,  as  in  the  mother 
house  in  France;  but  here  the  bishop  only  allows 
us  to  have  Exposition  once  a  month  throughout  the 


142  SISTER    TERESA 

night,  and  all  our  Sister.-^  look  forward  to  this  as 
their  greatest  privilege." 

"  It  is  a  very  beautiful  life,  Mother  Hilda ;  but 
it  is  hard  to  bear." 

"  Only  at  first ;  you  will  bear  it  more  and  more 
easily  as  you  realise  its  beauty.  Once  a  week,  in 
the  novitiate,  I  give  instructions  to  the  novices  on 
our  rule  and  its  object,  and  perhaps  this  will  prove 
a  help  to  you." 

^^  And  when  shall  I  take  my  watch  ?" 

"  I  don't  think  dear  Mother  has  fixed  your  hour 
yet.  She  did  not  wish  you  to  begin  to-day;  we 
must  not  overburden  you  with  piety  in  the  begin- 
ning. In  any  case,  the  novices  are  not  allowed  more 
than  half  an  hour's  watch  in  the  day — only  the 
professed  choir  Sisters  take  an  hour." 

Obedience,  the  Mother  Mistress  declared,  was  the 
beginning  of  the  religious  life,  and  Evelyn  must 
bear  in  mind  she  was  a  child  in  school,  with  noth- 
ing to  teach  and  everything  to  learn. 

"  The  experience  of  your  past  life,"  said  Mother 
Hilda  with  a  smile,  "  which  you  may  think  entitles 
you  to  consideration,  will  probably  only  be  a  hin- 
drance to  you  in  the  new  life  that  you  are  begin- 
ning. I  would  beg  you  to  put  all  the  teaching  of 
the  world  as  far  from  your  mind  as  possible,  it 
will  only  confuse  you.  What  we  think  wise,  the 
world  thinks  foolish,  and  the  wisdom  of  the  world 
is  to  us  a  vanity." 

After  the  rule  of  obedience  came  the  rule  of 


SISTER    TERESA  143 

silence,  and  that,  too,  had  to  he  followed  in  what 
seemed  to  her  a  painfnllj  literal  sense.  Silence 
from  the  sajing  of  the  De  Profundi^,  after  even- 
ing recreation,  until  after  Mass  the  next  morning! 

"  Conversation  is  never  allowed  except  at  recrea- 
tion, and  all  whispering  in  the  passages  and  visits 
to  each  others'  cells  are  forbidden.  The  novices," 
Mother  Hilda  added,  ^^  are  not  allowed  to  speak 
to  any  of  the  professed  without  special  permission ; 
but  in  your  case  the  Mother  Prioress  has  decided 
that  an  exception  will  be  made  in  favour  of  Sister 
Mary  John,  as  you  and  she  will  of  course  have 
music  to  discuss;  but  you  must  keep  the  rules 
strictly  as  regards  everyone  else." 

"  Mayn't  I  even  speak  to  Mother  Philippa  ?" 

"  Kot  unless  Mother  Philippa  first  speaks  to 
you." 

Evelyn  had  not  expected  this  complete  interrup- 
tion of  all  human  intercourse,  not  only  from  the 
outside  world,  but  even  from  those  who  were  ac- 
tually within  the  walls  of  the  convent. 

Perhaps  Mother  Hilda  saw  what  was  passing  in 
her  mind,  and  feeling  that  her  new  postulant  had 
received  as  much  instruction  as  she  could  absorb  in 
one  day,  she  looked  at  her  watch,  remarking  that 
she  expected  Sister  Winifred  and  Sister  Veronica 
for  their  Latin  lesson;  and  a  few  minutes  after 
the  two  novices  appeared,  each  with  her  breviary  in 
her  hand. 

The  Latin  lesson  consisted  mainly  of  explanation 


144  SISTEE    TEEESA 

of  the  offices  for  the  day,  and  reading  aloud  for 
practice  and  pronunciation,  and  the  translation  of 
one  or  two  of  the  psalms.  Evelyn  applied  herself 
to  the  lesson  which  Mother  Hilda  made  interesting 
by  her  enthusiasm  for  the  subject  and  her  intimate 
knowledge  of  all  that  the  breviary  contains;  and 
the  books  were  only  closed  when  the  Angelus  rang 
at  twelve  o'clock 


XV 

Then  Evelyn  remembered  that  she  had  not  had  a 
word  with  the  Mother  Prioress,  nor  had  she  had  a 
word  with  Sister  Mary  John,  though  this  was  neces- 
sary and  could  not  be  delayed  much  longer  if  she 
were  going  to  sing  at  Benediction.  She  had  looked 
forward  to  speaking  to  this  nun  in  the  recreation 
hour;  but  Mother  Hilda,  having  regard  for  their 
health,  had  kept  them  walking  up  and  down  St. 
Peter's  Path.  The  sun  was  hot,  and  the  conversa- 
tion seemed  more  trivial  and  disjointed  than  it  had 
done  the  night  before ;  and  in  her  weariness  Evelyn 
had  asked  hergelf  if  she  could  endure  this  life  to 
the  end  of  a  week. 

Rosary  followed  recreation,  and  Vespers  followed 
Rosary,  and  Evelyn  had  just  gone  up  the  novitiate 
stairs,  feeling  that  her  patience  and  her  piety  were 
equally  exhausted,  and  wondering  what  would  be 
the  next  duty  required  of  her,  when  Sister  Veronica 
appeared,  and  with  her  sweet,  demure  smile,  she 
said,  "  Reverend  Mother  would  like  to  speak  to  you 
in  her  room." 

"  Oh,  thank  you  so  much;  I  had  just  begun  to 
think  I  was  never  to  see  Mother  Prioress  again." 

"  I  expect  you  are  tired,  arenH  you  ?  The  life 
is  hard  at  first." 

10  145 


146  STSTEK    TERESA 

"  Yes,  I  am  dreadfully  tired,"  Evelyn  said,  con- 
scious of  a  sudden  inclination  to  tears. 

''  I  am  sorry,  but  you  know  we  shall  all  help  you, 
and  you  will  feel  better  when  you  have  had  a  little 
talk  with  dear  Mother.  But  you  must  come  at 
once,'^  the  little  novice  added  in  sudden  alarm,  for 
Evelyn  had  shown  no  sign  of  immediate  obedience. 
"  You  must  never  keep  Reverend  Mother  waiting ; 
and  please  take  off  your  apron;  we  never  go  into 
her  room  with  our  aprons  on." 

Evelyn  untied  her  apron,  and  flinging  it  on  a 
chair,  hastened  from  the  room.  Veronica  picked 
up  the  discarded  garment  with  a  smile,  and  folded 
it  neatly  in  four,  rolled  it  up  and  twisted  the  strings 
carefully  round  it,  and  laid  it  on  Evelyn^s  bed  in 
her  cell. 

At  the  same  moment  Evelyn  was  impetuously 
knocking  at  the  Prioresses  door,  with  all  the  effusive- 
ness of  the  actress,  and  none  of  the  demureness  of 
the  novice.  Sitting  with  the  Prioress  was  Sister 
Mary  John,  her  strong,  expectant  face  full  of 
pleasure  at  the  sight  of  Evelyn. 

"  Dear  Mother,  it  is  nice  of  you  to  have  sent  for 
me ;   I  was  pining  to  see  you." 

"  Oh,  but  postulants  must  learn  patience,  you 
know ;  .and  how  are  you  getting  on,  my  dear  child  ? 
Have  Mother  Mistress's  instructions  filled  you  with 
misgivings  ?" 

"  I  do  feel  rather  bewildered.  Mother,  and  I 
am  beginning  to  realise  that  no  one  outside  the 


SISTER    TEEESA  147 

tonveiit   lias   the  slightest   idea  of  what   it   is  like 
inside." 

'*  Well,  perhaps  you  will  feel  more  at  home  talk- 
ing music  with  Sister  Mary  John  for  a  bit." 

Evelyn  saw  that  Sister  Mary  John  was  longing 
to  interrupt  the  Reverend  Mother,  but  she  man- 
aged to  restrain  herself. 

'^  Well,"  the  Prioress  continued  in  her  clear,  even 
tones,  "  it  is  she  and  you  who  must  be  responsible 
for  the  convent  music  in  future,  and  you  must  talk 
over  what  is  best  for  you  to  sing.  You  will  both  see, 
I  am  sure,  that  in  the  little  musical  reformation  you 
are  going  to  undertake,  you  should  be  guided  in 
your  choice  of  music  by  what  will  best  serve  the 
interests  of  the  community.  Now,  as  regards  the 
reformation  and  the  singing  of  the  plain  chant,  the 
Benedictine  gradual  versus  the  Ratisbon,  do  you 
really  think  that  our  little  lay  congregation  would 
take  an  interest  in  the  question?  Is  the  difference 
between  the  two  sufficient  for  the  uncultivated  to 
distinguish  ?  That  must  be  a  question  for  the 
future ;  the  immediate  question  is,  how  can  we  ren- 
der our  daily  Benediction  service  more  popular? 
You  have  brought  some  music  with  you,  Evelyn,  I 
believe  ?" 

"  I  have  brought  a  good  deal,  Mother ;  whatever 
seemed  most  likely  to  be  of  use." 

"  Well,  you  and  Sister  Mary  John  had  better 
take  it  into  the  library  and  look  through  it  together, 


148  SISTER    TERESA 

and  decide  what  to  begin  with.  You  can  use  the 
harmonium  there." 

"  The  library  harmonium  is  out  of  tune. 
Mother,"  broke  in  Sister  Mary  John. 

"  If  it  is  out  of  tune,  we  will  send  for  the  tuner 
to-morrow,  and  you  will  be  glad  to  hear  that  I  am 
going  to  arrange  for  more  time  to  be  given  to  choir 
practice,  but  it  will  require  some  consideration." 

"  Well,  that  is  a  comfort  at  any  rate,"  said  Sister 
Mary  John,  as  they  left  the  Prioress's  room ;  "  your 
coming  amongst  us  has  accomplished  something 
already.  For  years  I  have  been  telling  the  Rever- 
end Mother  that  two  hours  a  week  are  insufficient 
for  practising,  but  I  could  never  make  her  see  the 
necessity  for  more." 

"  But  we  must  practise  every  day  if  we  are  to  ac- 
complish anything,"  said  Evelyn. 

"  I  have  not  yet  told  you,"  said  Sister  Mary 
John,  "  how  glad  I  am  that  you  have  come.  You 
don't  know  how  I  have  prayed  for  you,"  and  the 
brown  eyes  gazed  at  Evelyn  with  their  radiant 
smile.  "  I  do  hope  you  will  stay ;  you  must  try 
your  hardest." 

"  I  don't  know,  I  am  sure ;  at  recreation  to-day 
I  began  to  think  I  could  not  stand  it  much  longer." 

"  Why,  Sister  Evelyn,  you  have  only  been  here 
half  a  day.  You  do  not  yet  know  what  our  life  is. 
You  must  not  judge  by  the  mere  outside  like  that; 
is  it  the  food,  or  what  ?  Of  course,  I  knew  the  food 
is  a  trial  to  everyone  at  first." 


SISTER    TERESA  149 

"  No,  it  is  not  so  much  the  food,"  said  Evelyn,  as 
the  two  friends  laid  their  bundles  of  music  on  the 
library  table,  "  that  is  trying,  but  one  can  outlive 
the  food.  N^o,  it  is  the  sense  of  having  all  one's  day 
parcelled  out  for  one  in  a  round  of  trivial  little 
duties;  not  a  minute  to  call  one's  own,  not  a  mo- 
ment left  to  oneself,  and  I,  who  have  been  my  own 
mistress  for  years,  I  feel  as  though  I  should  choke, 
or  scream  and  do  something  desperate." 

"  Yes,  I  understand,"  said  Sister  Mary  John, 
kindly,  "  I  know  the  feeling." 

^^  I  knew  you  were  the  one  person  here  who  would 
understand.  I  wonder  if  I  shall  be  able  to  bear  it — 
oh,  those  recreations,  I  don't  think  I  can  get  used 
to  them." 

"  I  know,  I  know,"  repeated  Sister  Mary  John, 
and  her  clear  comprehension  soothed  Evelyn's  spirit. 
"  I  know  our  life  seems  trivial  from  an  outside 
point  of  view.  But  is  the  conversation  of  the 
novices  sillier  than  that  of  the  ordinary  society 
woman  ?  You  are  troubled  because  you  do  not  yet 
see  the  spiritual  life  that  lies  so  close  beneath  the 
trifling  surface — all  our  real  love  of  our  Lord,  all 
our  eager  desire  to  serve  Him,  all  our  anxious  en- 
deavour not  to  be  wholly  unworthy  of  our  vocation." 

As  Sister  Mary  John  talked,  her  face  lit  up  and 
her  eyes  shone,  with  a  clear,  passionate  joy,  and 
Evelyn  saw  that  her  submission  was  no  half-hearted 
one,  that  she  had  embraced  the  life  with  her  heart 
and  her  intellect,  and  if  the  yoke  fretted  here  and 


150  SISTER    TERESA 

there,  it  was  borne  with  the  splendid  courage  of  a 
strong  nature.  In  her  there  was  nothing  petty  or 
narrow,  her  warm  sympathies  had  never  been  chilled 
by  separation  from  the  world,  and  though  Sister 
Evelyn  recognised  that  Sister  Mary  John  might 
have  many  human  faults — impatience  and  rash 
judgment  and  self-will,  from  which  Mother  Hilda's 
well-balanced  and  deeply  religious  nature  was  free 
— yet  it  seemed  to  her  that  she  would  receive  more 
help  from  the  impulsive  enthusiasm  of  the  one  than 
the  delicate  spirituality  of  the  other. 

"  The  first  thing,"  the  nun  said,  ^^  is  to  grasp  the 
great  ideal  that  permeates  our  life ;  I  am  sure 
Mother  Mistress  has  spoken  to  you  of  it  already." 

Evelyn  nodded. 

"  We  must  keep  it  always  in  the  front  of  our 
thoughts ;  to  us  it  must  be  the  only  real  thought  that 
life  has  to  offer.  The  externalities  of  our  life  are  of 
no  account.  What  can  they  matter  in  the  light  of 
eternity?  The  petty  routine  which  distresses  you 
is  only  the  envelope,  which  will  fade  from  your 
eyes,  you  may  be  sure,  and  you  w^ill  soon  enter  into 
the  enjoyment  of  the  spiritual  life,  without  which 
life  lived  here  would  be  unendurable,  with  it  the 
convent  is  an  earthly  paradise." 

"  Yes,  but  how  may  I  arrive  at  this  enviable  state 
of  detachment  ?" 

"  By  prayer,"  said  Sister  Mary  John,  and  Evelyn 
noticed  how  her  face  became  suddenly  absorbed. 
*'  We  must  learn  to  pray.     We  come  here  because 


SISTEK    TERESA  151 

we  can  pray  better  here  than  in  the  world.  We 
can  do  nothing  without  prayer;  but  by  prayer 
we  can  do  almost  everything.  Once  we  enter  the 
life  of  prayer  this  miserable  world  falls  behind  us, 
and  we  enter  the  real  world.  Let  us  kneel  down  at 
once  and  pray,  before  we  do  anything  else." 

They  fell  on  their  knees  before  the  almost  life- 
sized  crucifix  which  hung  between  the  windows,  and 
they  rose  from  their  knees  with  shining  eyes  which 
smiled  at  one  another. 

"  There,  you  look  better  already,"  said  Sister 
Mary  John.     "  ]N"ow,  what  about  the  music  ?" 

When  they  had  looked  through  all  the  music, 
making  separate  heaps  of  pieces  that  seemed  within 
the  compass  of  their  little  choir,  Sister  Mary  John 
said,  "  What  will  you  sing  to-day  at  Benediction  ? 
Will  you  sing  Stradella's  Chanson  d'Eglise  or  will 
you  sing  Schubert's  Ave  Maria — nothing  is  more 
beautiful  than  that." 

"  I  will  sing  the  Ave  Maria."  .  .  .  The  nun  sat 
down  to  play  it,  but  she  had  not  played  many  bars 
when  Evelyn  interrupted  her.  "  The  intention  of 
the  single  note,  dear  Sister,  the  octave  you  are 
striking  now,  has  always  seemed  to  me  like  a  dis- 
tant bell  heard  in  the  evening.     Will  you  play 

it  80?" 


XVI 

And  the  idea  of  a  bell  sounding  across  the  even- 
ing landscape  was  in  the  mind  of  the  congregation 
when  Sister  Mary  John  played  the  octave ;  and  the 
broken  chords  she  played  with  her  right  hand  awoke 
a  sensation  of  lights  dying  behind  distant  hills. 

It  is  almost  night,  and  amid  a  lonely  landscape 
a  harsh  rock  appears,  and  by  it  a  forlorn  woman 
stands — a  woman  who  is  without  friend  or  any 
mortal  hope — and  she  commends  herself  to  the  care 
of  the  Virgin.  She  begins  to  sing  softly,  tremulous 
like  one  in  pain  and  doubt,  "  Ave  Maria,  hearken  to 
the  Virgin's  cry."  The  melody  she  sings  is  rich, 
even  ornate,  but  the  richness  of  the  phrase  with  its 
two  little  grace  notes  does  not  mitigate  the  sorrow  at 
the  core ;  the  rich  garb  in  which  the  idea  is  clothed 
does  not  rob  the  song  of  its  humanity. 

Evelyn's  voice  filled  with  the  beauty  of  the  mel- 
ody, and  she  sang  the  phrase  which  closes  the  stanza, 
a  phrase  which  dances  like  a  puff  of  wind  in  an 
evening  bough,  so  tenderly,  so  lovingly,  that  acute 
tears  trembled  under  the  eyelids.  And  all  her  soul 
was  in  her  voice  when  she  sang  the  phrase  of  pas- 
sionate faith  which  the  lonely,  disheartened  woman 

sings,  looking  up  from  the  desert  rock.     Then  her 
152 


SISTER    TERESA  153 

voice  sank  into  the  calm  beauty  of  the  Ave  Maria, 
now  given  with  confidence  in  the  Virgin's  interces- 
sion, and  the  broken  chords  passed  down  the  key- 
board, uniting  with  the  last  note  of  the  solemn  oc- 
taves, which  had  sounded  through  the  song  like  bells 
heard  across  an  evening  landscape. 

"  How  beautiful  she  sings  it,"  a  man  said  out 
loud,  and  his  neighbour  looked  and  wondered,  for 
the  man's  eyes  were  full  of  tears. 

"  You  have  a  beautiful  voice,  child,"  said  the  old 
nun,  when  they  came  out  of  church,  "  and  it  is  a 
real  pleasure  to  me  to  hear  you  sing,  and  to  know 
that  for  the  future  your  great  gift  will  be  devoted 
to  the  service  of  God.  Shall  we  go  into  the  garden 
for  a  little  walk  before  supper?  We  shall  have  it 
to  ourselves,  and  the  air  will  do  you  good." 

It  was  the  month  of  June,  and  the  convent  garden 
was  in  all  the  colour  of  its  summer — crimson  and 
pink;  and  all  the  scents  of  the  month,  stocks  and 
sweetbriar,  were  blown  up  from  St.  Peter's  Walk. 
In  the  long  mixed  borders  the  blue  larkspurs  stood 
erect  between  Canterbury  bells,  and  the  bushy  peo- 
nies, crimson  and  pink,  and,  over  all,  the  great  va- 
grant poppies  showered  their  gay  petals.  Roses, 
like  pale  porcelain,  clustered  along  the  low  ter- 
raced walk  and  up  the  house  itself,  over  the  stucco 
walls;  but  more  beautiful  than  the  roses  were  the 
delicate  petals  of  the  clematis  stretched  out  like 
fingers  upon  the  walls. 

An  old  nun  was  being  wheeled  up  and  down  the 


154  SISTER    TEEESA 

terrace  in  a  chair  by  one  of  the  lay  Sisters,  that  she 
might  enjoy  the  sweet  air. 

"  I  must  introduce  yon  to  Sister  Lawrence/'  the 
Prioress  said,  "  she  will  never  forgive  me  if  I  don't. 
She  is  the  eldest  member  of  our  community;  if 
she  lives  another  two  years  she  will  complete  half 
a  century  of  convent  life." 

As  they  drew  near  Evelyn  saw  two  black  eyes 
in  a  white,  almost  fleshless  face.  The  eyes  alone 
seemed  to  live,  and  the  shrunken  figure,  huddled 
in  many  shawls,  gave  an  impression  of  patriarchal 
age.  Evelyn  saw  by  her  veil  that  Sister  Lawrence 
was  a  lay  Sister,  and  the  old  nun  tried  to  draw  her- 
self up  in  her  chair  as  they  approached,  and  kissed 
the  hand  of  the  Prioress. 

"  Well,  Sister,  how  are  you  feeling  ?  I  have 
brought  you  our  new  musical  postulant  to  look  at. 
T  want  to  know  what  you  think  of  her.  You  must 
know,  Evelyn,"  said  the  Prioress,  ''  that  Sister  Law- 
rence is  a  great  judge  of  people's  vocations;  I 
always  consult  her  about  my  new  postulants." 

Sister  Lawrence  took  Evelyn's  hands  between 
hers,  and  gazed  into  her  face  so  earnestly  that  Eve- 
lyn feared  her  innerm.ost  thoughts  were  being  read. 
Then  with  a  little  touch  of  wilfulness,  that  came 
oddly  from  one  so  old  and  venerable,  the  Sister 
said, — 

"  Well,  Reverend  Mother,  she  is  pretty,  anyhow, 
and  it  is  a  long  time  since  we  had  a  pretty  postu- 
lant." 


SISTEK    TERESA  155 

^'  Really,  Lawrence,  1  am  ashamed  of  you,"  said 
the  Prioress  with  playful  severity ;  "  Sister  Evelyn 
will  be  quite  disedified*" 

^^  Mother,  if  I  like  them  to  he  pretty  it  is  only 
because  they  have  one  more  gift  to  bring  to  the  feet 
of  our  dear  Lord.  I  see  in  Sister  Evelyn's  face  that 
she  has  a  vocation.  I  believe  she  is  the  providence 
that  God  has  sent  to  help  us  through  our  diffi- 
culties." 

"  We're  all  praying,"  said  the  Prioress,  "  that  it 
may  be  so." 


XVII 

"  Sister  Cecilia,  who  is  our  sacristan,  is  a  little 
slow  and  forgetful,"  the  Prioress  said  one  day. 
"  She  wants  a  little  help,  and  you  are  just  the  one, 
Evelyn,  to  help  her,  and  you  will  soon  learn  the 
work." 

The  sacristry  was  a  large,  cool  room,  wainscoted 
in  oak,  and  Evelyn  followed  the  Prioress  into  a 
sweet  fragrance  of  lavender  and  orris  root.  She 
was  shown  how  the  vestments  were  laid  on  the 
shelves,  with  tissue  paper  between  them,  and  how 
they  were  covered  with  holland  wrappers.  These 
vestments  were  the  pride  of  the  convent.  They 
dated  from  its  prosperous  times;  and  Evelyn 
thought,  as  she  was  shown  the  white  satin  vest- 
ments for  the  priest,  deacon,  and  sub-deacon,  used 
on  Easter  Sundays,  the  professed  days  of  the  Sis- 
ters, and  the  visits  of  the  Bishop,  and  the  white  em- 
broidered vestments  with  the  figure  of  Our  Lady 
in  a  blue  medallion  in  the  centre  of  the  cross,  used 
for  all  feasts  of  the  Virgin,  how  the  altar  raiment 
had  always  been  the  pious  labour  and  vanity  of 
women  who  inured  their  bodies  to  the  discomfort 
of  coarse  habits  and  lived  in  bare  cells;  how 
women's  natural  desire  for  embroidered  silks  and 
richly-assorted  colours  had  found  expression  in  the 
156 


SISTEK    TERESA  157 

adornment  of  the  altar  and  the  garmenting  of  a 
priest. 

There  were  two  sets  of  red  vestments,  one  made 
of  red  and  green  brocade,  and  the  colour  of  its 
lining,  Evelyn  said,  reminded  her  of  beetroot,  and 
she  got  into  the  habit  of  calling  them  the  ^'  beet- 
root ones,"  and  it  amused  her  to  avoid  putting  them 
for  wear  whenever  she  could.  On  another  shelf 
were  the  great  copes  in  satin  and  brocade,  gold 
and  white,  with  embroidered  hoods,  and  orphries 
with  veils  to  match.  The  processional  banners  were 
stored  in  tall  presses,  and  with  them,  hanging  on 
wire  hooks,  were  the  altar  curtains,  thick  with  gold 
thread. 

The  pride  of  the  convent  in  its  vestments  and 
banners  never  ceased;  how  much  had  been  paid 
for  them,  and  how  much  they  were  now  worth,  was 
a  constant  subject  of  conversation.  Once  a  whisper 
had  gone  round  that  the  white  satin  vestments 
might  have  to  be  sold,  and  the  nuns  had  said  they 
would  rather  live  on  bread  and  water  always, than 
part  with  them.  This  was  a  little  while  before 
Evelyn  had  come  to  their  help,  and  she  had  been 
told  that  it  was  she  who  had  saved  the  vestments; 
so  when  they  were  in  use  she  raised  herself  in  her 
place  so  that  she  might  see  them  better,  and  she  kept 
a  special  watchfulness  over  them  for  moth  and  dust. 

In  the  sacristy  they  were  always  busy  and  always 
behindhand  with  their  work.  Eor  the  high  altar 
there  were  the  curtains  and  embroidered  frontals 


158  SISTER    TERESA 

and  the  tabernacle  hangings,  and  as  these  had  to 
harmonise  with  the  vestments  it  often  happened 
they  were  changed  every  day;  and  on  the  day  be- 
fore Mass  for  the  Dead  the  whole  altar  had  to  be 
stripped  after  Benediction  and  black  hangings  had 
to  be  put  on,  and  these  had  to  be  changed  the  next 
morning  after  Mass  was  over.  Then  the  manage- 
ment of  the  candles  demanded  much  attention. 
They  had  to  be  all  of  equal  length  when  the  altar 
was  lighted  for  Benediction ;  and  to  be  economical, 
with  as  splendid  a  show  as  possible,  was  the  am- 
bition of  the  sacristan.  It  was  essential  to  make 
sure  that  no  candle  should  ever  burn  into  its  socket, 
leaving  less  than  the  twelve  ordained  by  the  Church 
for  Exposition. 

The  work  of  the  sacristy  seemed  to  Evelyn  to 
be  arranged  with  a  view  to  giving  the  greatest 
amount  of  trouble  to  the  sacristan.  It  was  the 
Prioress's  whim  never  to  use  the  ordinary  altar  cloth 
with  an  embroidered  hem,  but  always  cloths  on 
which  lace  frontals  were  lightly  tacked,  and  the 
sewing  on  of  the  lace  without  creasing  the  beautiful 
white  linen  required  great  care  and  dexterity,  and 
the  spilling  of  a  little  wax  at  once  condemned  an 
altar  cloth  to  the  wash.  Then,  every  member  of  the 
community  seemed  to  have  an  interest  in  the  busi- 
ness of  the  sacristy.  Apart  from  the  canonical 
directions  for  divine  service,  there  existed  an  un- 
written code  of  customs  of  pious  observances.  Some 
saints  were  honoured  by  having  their  banners  ex- 


SISTER    TERESA  159 

hibited  in  the  sanctuary  throughout  the  octave  of  the 
feast,  whilst  others  were  allowed  little  temporary 
altars  on  which  some  relic  could  be  exposed.  The 
Sisters  themselves  were  often  mistaken  as  to  what 
had  been  done  on  previous  anniversaries,  but  the 
Prioress's  memory  was  unfailing,  and  in  cases  of 
doubt  every  point  had  to  be  referred  to  her.  One 
of  the  strictest  rules  of  the  house  was  that  the  sacris- 
tan took  orders  from  none  but  the  Prioress;  and 
Evelyn  rejoiced  that  this  was  so,  for  it  gave  her 
frequent  excuse  for  little  hasty  visits  and  chats  in 
the  Prioress's  room. 

To  arrange  the  high  altar  for  a  great  feast  Evelyn 
would  sometimes  rob  one  of  the  other  altars,  espe- 
cially if  it  were  dedicated  to  a  saint  who  did  not 
appeal  to  her;  and  the  Prioress,  coming  one  day 
to  see  what  progress  was  being  made,  found  .St. 
Joseph's  altar  stripped  save  for  a  single  pair  of 
candlesticks  and  two  flow^er  vases  filled  with  arti- 
ficial flowers.  Evelyn  was  admonished,  and  she 
dared  to  answer  that  she  was  not  interested  in 
St.  Joseph — ^^  though,  of  course,  he  was  a  very 
worthy  man." 

^^  My  dear  Evelyn,  I  cannot  allow  you  to  speak 
in  this  way  of  St.  Joseph,  who  is  one  of  the  patrons 
of  the  convent,  nor  can  I  allow  his  altar  to  be  robbed 
in  this  fashion." 

On  another  occasion  the  Prioress  held  to  her 
opinion  regarding  the  vestments  to  be  used,  but 
Evelyn  answered,  ^^  Yes,  Mother,  I  know.    I  always 


160  SISTEK    TERESA 

use  the  common  ones  for  the  martyrs;  but  the 
apostles — well — are  the  apostles,  and  you  would  not 
like  them  to  be  put  off  with  the  beetroot  things." 
Behind  them  stood  Sister  Cecilia,  listening  with 
growing  astonishment  that  a  mere  postulant  should 
dare  to  speak  to  the  Prioress  on  terms  of  equality! 
She  took  no  pride  in  her  position  as  sacristan,  seem- 
ing to  see  in  her  duties  only  a  great  deal  of  work 
and  a  responsibility  from  which  she  would  like  to 
be  free.  Evelyn  could  see  that  Sister  Cecilia  looked 
upon  her  enthusiasms  as  amateurish,  and  that  she 
was  convinced  they  would  soon  wear  off.  Mean- 
while, the  nun  was  glad  to  reliquish  her  work  and 
retire  to  the  chapel  to  indulge  in  pious  reverie.  She 
was  the  type  of  nun  who  is  the  despair  of  every 
Eeverend  Mother — the  idle  devout — her  common 
complaint  being  that  she  had  no  time  to  say  her 
prayers.  The  Prioress  thought  that  the  community 
prayers  according  to  the  rule  of  the  convent  were 
sufficient,  and  one  day  she  compelled  her  to  return 
to  the  sacristy,  and  had  then  compared  Sister 
Cecilia's  work  with  Evelyn's.  If  she  did  not,  the 
Prioress  said,  put  more  fervour  into  her  prayers 
than  she  put  into  her  work,  they  would  avail  her 
little  enough. 

Evelyn  had  brought  her  experience  of  stage 
decoration  and  her  o^vn  talent  for  personal  decora- 
tion for  the  parts  she  had  played  into  the  decoration 
of  the  chapel,  and  poor  Sister  Cecilia  wondered  at 
the  marvels  which  Evelyn  accomplished  with  the 


SlSTKi:    TKRKSA  161 

scantiest  materials.  But  fired  by  the  Priore88's 
remarks  she  henceforth  refused  to  Evelvn  any  share 
in  the  work  of  the  altar,  and  on  the  feast  of  the  As- 
sumption she  laboured  until  she  could  no  more, 
anxious  to  accomplish  a  decoration  which  would 
win  words  of  approval  from  the  Reverend  Mother. 
But  when  she  stopped  to  view  her  work  at  the  end 
of  the  day  the  conviction  that  it  was  worthless  forced 
her  to  ask  Evelyn  to  put  it  right. 

Evelyn  tried  to  rearrange  the  altar  as  quietly  and 
as  unobtrusively  as  she  could,  pretending  that  her 
alterations  were  few  and  slight,  and  keeping  herself 
from  looking  towards  the  nun  who  prayed  for 
strength  to  conquer  her  sinful  jealousy.  Sister 
Cecilia  had  told  Evelyn  she  was  not  to  tend  the 
sacred  lamp  any  longer;  but  forgot  this  piece  of 
spitefulness  in  her  contrition,  and  left  the  chapel 
without  filling  the  lamp;  and  that  night,  for  luck 
was  always  against  her,  the  Prioress  came  down  to 
say  her  prayers  when  the  community  was  in  bed. 
She  found  the  chapel  in  darkness,  and  had  to  return 
to  her  room  for  matches,  l^ow  it  was  a  point  of 
pious  observance  that  the  Easter  light,  struck  on 
Holy  Saturday,  should  be  preserved  through  the 
year,  each  new  wick  being  lighted  from  the  dying 
one.  Sister  Cecilia's  carelessness  had  broken  the 
continuity ;  she  was  severely  reprimanded  and  dis- 
missed from  the  sacristy.  She  ate  her  meals  that 
day  kneeling  on  the  refectory  floor,  and  for  many 

a  day  the  shameful  occurrence  was  remembered. 

11 


162  SISTER    TERESA 

Veronica  was  appointed  in  her  place,  and  de- 
lighted at  her  promotion,  she  wore  a  quaint  little  air 
of  importance,  and  hurried  ahout  with  a  bunch  of 
keys  hanging  from  her  belt  by  a  long  chain. 

It  amused  Evelyn  to  find  herself  under  Veronica's 
orders,  but  the  little  novice  was  quite  composed; 
she  merely  said,  "  1  cannot  help  it.  Sister  Evelyn ; 
of  course  you  ought  to  be  in  my  place,  and  I  cannot 
think  why  dear  Mother  has  arranged  it  like  this." 

They  might  talk  in  the  sacristy,  and  Evelyn  be- 
gan to  see  into  Veronica's  nature ;  and  her  innocent 
nature  revealed  itself  in  little  questions. 

"  Why  do  you  want  to  be  a  nun.  Sister  Evelyn  ?" 
she  said  as  they  folded  up  the  vestments  after 
Mass. 

"  Is  it  strange  that  I  should  wish  to  be  a  nun  V 

"  Yes,  for  you  are  not  like  any  of  us,  nor  has  the 
convent  been  the  same  since  you  came." 

"  Are  you  sorry  I  want  to  be  a  nun  ?" 

"  Sorry,  Sister  Evelyn  ?  No,  indeed.  God  chose 
you  from  the  beginning  as  the  means  he  would  em- 
ploy to  save  us,  only  I  cannot  see  you  as  a  nun, 
always  satisfied  with  the  life  here." 

"  Everyone  does  not  know  from  childhood  what 
they  are  going  to  do.  You  always  knew  your  voca- 
tion, Veronica." 

"  I  can't  imagine  myself  anything  but  a  nun,  and 
yet  I'm  not  always  satisfied.  Sometimes  I'm  filled 
with  longing,  a  great  longing,  and  I  feel  as  though 
I  could  not  live  without  it ;  yet  I  don't  know  what 


SISTER    TERESA  163 

I  want.  It  is  an  extraordinary  feeling.  Do  you 
know  what  I  mean,  Sister  Evelyn  ?" 

"  Yes,  dear,  I  think  I  do." 

"  It  makes  me  feel  quite  faint,  and  it  seizes  me 
so  suddenly;  IVe  wanted  to  tell  you  for  a  long 
time,  only  I  haven't  liked  to.  There  are  days  when 
it  makes  me  so  restless  that  I  cannot  say  my  prayers, 
and  so  I  know  the  feeling  must  be  wrong." 

The  nun's  words  stirred  an  old  scruple  in  Evelyn, 
and  she  did  not  dare  to  answer,  but  Sister  Veronica 
continued  as  if  talking  to  herself, — 

"It  is  something  in  the  quality  of  your  voice. 
It  thrills  through  me,  and  brings  on  this  feeling 
worse  than  anything.  But  as  no  one  else  seems 
affected  by  your  singing  as  I  am,  I  fancied  that  it 
was  because  you  felt  the  same." 

"  I  would  not  worry  over  it,  Veronica.  You'll 
get  over  it.    It  will  pass." 

"  I  hope  it  will,"  Veronica  said.  Her  eyes  were 
full  of  reverie,  and  behind  her  the  open  press  ex- 
haled a  thin  fragrance  of  lavender. 


XVIII 

Father  Ambrose  was  a  Carmelite  monk,  a  great 
preacher,  and  a  man  of  the  highest  sanctity,  who 
was  a  very  old  friend  of  the  house,  and  the  spiritual 
adviser  of  the  Prioress  and  many  of  her  nuns.  He 
came  once  or  twice  a  year,  and  his  visits  were  among 
the  great  events  of  conventual  history.  He  was 
coming  to  them  that  week;  he  would  stay  with 
Father  Daly  some  days,  and  this  visit  was  the  sub- 
ject of  conversation  during  the  morning's  recrea- 
tion. 

It  was  pleasant  to  sit  talking  of  him  under  their 
great  tree.  The  air  and  the  earth  were  warm,  and 
Mother  Hilda  sat  in  the  midst  of  her  novices  and 
postulants,  helping  the  conversation,  guiding  it 
occasionally.  Everyone  was  anxious  to  talk,  but 
everyone  was  anxious  to  think,  too,  for  everyone 
knew  that  she  would  be  questioned  by  the  aged 
monk,  and  that  the  chances  of  her  being  accepted 
as  a  nun  depended  in  no  small  measure  on  his 
opinion  of  her  vocation.  But  in  the  midst  of  their 
personal  interests  in  the  monk,  Evelyn  noticed  that 
the  eyes  of  the  novices  were  frequently  turned  to 
Veronica,  and  that  they  were  all  laughing  at  her. 

*•  Have  you  noticed.  Sister  Evelyn,  how  beaming 
Sister  Veronica  has  looked  for  the  last  day  or  two  ? 
I  can't  think  what  has  come  to  her." 
164 


SISTER    TEEESA  165 

''  Ye5,  isn't  it  Incky  for  her  to  have  been  put  in 
the  sacristy  just  before  Father  Ambrose's  visit ; 
now  she  will  be  able  to  put  out  his  vestments  her- 
self." 

^^  Yes,  and  you  may  be  sure  we  shall  have  all  the 
best  vestments  every  day;  and  she  will  be  able  to 
have  any  number  of  private  interview's  behind  our 
backs/'  "^ 

'^  ^ow,  children,  that  will  do,"  interrupted 
Mother  Hilda,  as  she  noticed  Veronica's  crimson 
cheeks  as  she  bent  over  her  work. 

Evelyn  wondered,  and  that  evening  in  the 
sacristy  Veronica  broke  into  expostulations  with 
an  excitement  that  took  Evelyn  by  surprise. 

^^  How  could  I  not  care  for  Father  Ambrose  ?  I 
have  kno^vn  him  all  my  life.  Once  I  was  very  ill 
with  pleurisy,  I  nearly  died,  and  Father  Ambrose 
anointed  me  and  gave  me  the  last  sacrament.  I 
had  not  made  my  first  communion  then,  I  was  only 
eleven,  but  they  gave  me  the  sacrament,  for  they 
thought  I  was  dying,  and  I  thought  so  too,  and  T 
promised  our  Lord  I  w^ould  be  a  nun  if  I  got  well. 
I  never  told  anyone  except  Father  Ambrose,  and 
he  has  helped  me  all  through  to  keep  my  vow — so 
you  see,  he  has  been  everything  to  me.  T  have  never 
loved  anyone  as  I  have  loved  Father  Ambrose. 
When  he  comes  here  I  always  ask  him  for  some 
rule  or  directions,  so  that  I  may  have  the  happi- 
ness of  obevino;  him  till  his  next  visit,  and  it  is 
so  trying,  is  it  not,  Sister  Evelyn,  when  the  novices 


166  SISTER    TERESA 

make  their  silly  little  jokes  about  it,  and  of  course 
they  do  not  understand,  they  can't;  but  to  me 
Father  Ambrose  means  everything  I  care  for,  be- 
sides, he  really  is  a  saint.  I  believe  he  would  have 
been  canonised  if  he  had  lived  in  the  Middle  Ages. 
He  has  promised  to  profess  me.  It  is  wrong,  I 
know,  but  really,  I  should  hardly  care  to  be  pro- 
fessed if  Father  Ambrose  could  not  be  by." 

"  So  this,"  Evelyn  thought,  ^'  is  the  passion  of 
this  child's  life,  this  spiritual  love  of  an  aged  monk, 
a  love  which  is  part  and  parcel  of  her  highest  and 
holiest  thoughts.  It  is  the  most  real  thing  in  a 
life  wholly  purged  of  external  events." 

And  to  Evelyn,  always  curiously  interested  in 
the  mystery  of  sex,  this  spiritual  love  within  the 
convent  was  strangely  pathetic.  Evelyn  noted  the 
change  that  had  come  over  the  little  sacristan ;  her 
eyes  shone,  and  her  pale  oval  face  had  a  pretty 
fresh  colour,  and  she  seemed  to  dance  through  her 
work. 

Evelyn  watched  her  sympathetically,  understand- 
ing instinctively  that  Veronica  was  jealous  that  any 
other  hands  than  hers  should  lay  out  the  vestments 
he  was  to  wear,  and  she  turned  her  head  so  that 
Sister  Veronica  should  not  think  she  was  being 
watched ;  and  the  little  nun  was  happy  in  the  corner 
of  the  sacristy  laying  out  the  gold  vestments  he 
was  to  wear,  putting  the  gold  chalice  for  him  to 
use,  and  the  gold  cruets,  which  Evelyn  had  never 
seen  used  before,  and  she  left  out  the  finest  towels 


SISTER    TERESA  167 

for  him  to  dry  his  hands.  Being  a  monk  he  had  a 
larger  amice  than  the  ordinary  priest,  and  Veronica 
produced  a  coloured  strip  of  embroidery,  which 
she  tacked  on  to  the  outer  hem  of  the  amice  so  as 
to  give  it  the  desired  appearance  when  the  monk 
drew  it  over  his  head  on  entering  or  leaving  the 
sacristy.  Weeks  after,  Evelyn  came  upon  this  amice 
with  the  embroidery  attached  put  away  in  a  secret 
corner  so  that  it  should  not  be  used  in  the  ordinary 
way,  and  when  on  the  second  evening  of  his  stay 
Father  Ambrose  preached  familiarly  to  the  nuns, 
choosing  his  text  from  the  Song  of  Solomon,  and 
dwelling  upon  the  mystical  union  between  Christ 
and  his  earthly  spouse,  Evelyn  felt  that  of  all  the 
nuns  it  was  probably  Veronica  who  penetrated  most 
fully  into  his  meaning. 


XIX 

SuDDEifLY  she  noticed  in  herself  a  little  of  that 
childish  gaietj  which  had  seemed  to  her  to  he  one 
of  the  characteristics  of  the  Sisters,  and  she  re- 
flected that  she  owed  her  peace  of  mind  to  her  daily 
practice  of  obedience.  She  liked  to  break  off  in 
the  middle  of  a  sentence,  at  the  first  note  of  the 
Angelus  or  the  De  Profundis.  She  liked  to  hnrry 
in  answer  to  any  summons  of  the  Prioress  or  the 
Kovice  Mistress. 

Obedience  and  chastity  were  the  familiar  spirits 
of  the  place,  and  like  guardian  angels  they  watched 
over  her,  and  in  the  convent  it  seemed  simple  and 
natural  to  believe  in  God  and  all  the  dogmas  of  the 
Church. 

In  her  first  letter  to  her  father  she  wrote: 

"  I  am  so  happy  here  that  I  wonder  why  I  re- 
mained in  the  world  so  long.  Behind  love  and 
behind  fame  there  is  the  ache  of  living,  and  it  only 
ceases  in  a  convent.  I  often  look  round  wondering 
how  it  was  that  I  could  have  passed  hap2:)iiiess  by  so 
often ;  that  I  should  have  searched  for  it  so  eagerly, 
missing  it  always;  that  I  should  have  gone  so  far 
in  quest  of  it,  when  all  the  time  it  was  at  hand. 
You  will  think  that  I  am  mistaken,  that  I  am  de- 
168 


SISTER    TERESA  169 

ceived  by  the  novelty  of  a  new  life,  that  I  am  en- 
chanted by  a  new  adventure.  It  may  be  so,  though 
I  do  not  think  it  is;  but  of  this  I  am  sure,  that 
those  who  have  been  in  the  convent  longest  are  the 
happiest  of  us  all.  I  shall  never  forget  how  one 
day  last  autumn,  when  the  grass  was  soaked  with 
cold  dew  and  the  crisp  leaves  hung  in  a  death-like 
silence,  I  met  one  of  the  lay  Sisters,  Sister  Bridget, 
coming  down  the  path.  She  was  carrying  a  pail  of 
water,  and  I  noticed  that  she  was  going  to  our  grave- 
yard. She  was  going,  she  explained,  to  scrub  the 
tiles  which  covered  the  late  Reverend  Mother's 
grave.  ^  Ah,  well.  Mother's  room  must  havie  its 
weekly  turn  out,'  she  answered,  and  when  I  pointed 
out  to  her  that  the  tiles  were  still  clean,  her  answer 
made  it  clear  that  she  regarded  the  task  of  attend- 
ing to  the  grave  not  as  a  duty  but  as  a  privilege. 
Her  face  withered  and  ruddy  like  an  apple  reflected 
an  extraordinary  contentment,  and  I  felt  that  if  she 
were  asked  what  she  would  do  if  she  had  to  begin 
life  again,  she  would  answer:  I  would  begin  it 
again  in  a  convent.  She  has  worked  for  the  com- 
munity for  nearly  thirty  years;  she  has  been 
through  all  the  early  years  of  struggle — a  struggle 
which  has  begun  again — a  struggle  the  details  of 
which  were  not  even  told  her,  and  which  she  had  no 
curiosity  to  hear.  She  is  content  to  work  on  to 
the  end,  believing  that  it  was  God's  will  for  her  to 
do  so.  The  lay  Sisters  can  aspire  to  none  of  the 
convent  offices;    they  have  none  of  the  smaller  dis- 


170  SISTER    TERESA 

tractions  of  receiving  guests,  and  instructing  con- 
verts and  so  forth,  and  not  to  have  as  much  time 
for  prayer  as  thej  desire  is  their  penance.  Thej 
are  humble  folk  who  strive  in  a  humble  way  to 
separate  themselves  from  the  animal,  and  they  see 
heaven  from  the  wash-tub  plainly.  In  the  eyes  of 
the  world  they  are  ignorant  and  simple  hearts. 
They  are  ignorant,  but  of  what  are  they  ignorant  ? 
Only  of  the  passing  show,  which  every  moment 
crumbles  and  perishes.  I  see  them  as  I  write — 
their  ready  smiles  and  their  touching  humility. 
They  are  humble  workers  in  a  humble  vineyard, 
and  they  are  content  that  it  should  be  so." 

Speaking  again  of  the  happiness  she  had  dis- 
covered in  the  convent,  she  said: 

"  I  sometimes  look  around  a  little  dazed  by  my 
own  happiness,  and  the  happiness  of  those  I  see 
about  me.  I  can  hardly  believe  it  is  all  true;  life 
moves  so  easily  from  the  early  morning  until  bed- 
time. It  flows  (my  comparison  is  a  commonplace 
one,  I  know)  like  a  beautiful  stream,  a  steady  cur- 
rent which  bears  onward  happily  and  surely  to- 
wards eternity.  Everyone  here  has  her  work  to  do, 
everyone  is  busy  and  not  one  is  overworked.  If 
ever  I  felt  disinclined  for  my  work  and  wished  for 
idleness  I  should  find  no  one  to  idle  with  me.  At 
every  hour  everyone  is  in  her  appointed  place,  doing 
her  appointed  duty.    The  food  is  not  very  good,  nor 


SISTER    TERESA  171' 

very  plentiful,  for  the  nuns  are  poor.  It  is  a  little 
trying,  I  admit,  to  feel  always  a  little  hungry.  But 
this  inconvenience  is  slight,  when  we  compare  it 
with  the  great  inconvenience  which  we  have  to  bear 
with  if  we  live  in  the  world.  Here,  at  all  events, 
ennui  is  unknown.  The  remarks  which  we  hear  so 
often  in  the  world,  which  I  used  to  hear  so  often  in 
Owen  Asher's  society,  in  the  country  houses  where 
we  used  to  visit — '  What  shall  we  do  this  evening  ? 
What  shall  we  do  to-morrow  ?  Whom  can  we  go 
and  see  V  are  never  heard  here,  isor  is  there  spite- 
fulness  nor  jealousy,  nor  any  divergence  of  aim; 
our  ambition  is  the  same,  and  it  is  the  greatest  and 
the  noblest,  for  it  is  to  love  God,  to  please  him  and 
to  put  sin  away.  It  is  such  happiness  to  feel  that 
we  are  all  working  for  one  common  end.  We  know 
one  another  intimately  here,  although  we  talk  very 
little,  and  were  the  hardships  of  convent  life  a 
great  deal  worse  than  they  are,  they  would  be  worth 
bearing  with  because  of  that  spiritual  intimacy 
which  we  find  only  in  the  cloister." 

In  another  letter  she  said : 

"  I  am  not  yet  happy  as  the  other  nuns  are  happy, 
because  I  am  thinking  of  you.  The  ache  of  life  is 
still  in  me,  and  I  rarely  wake  in  the  morning  with- 
out thinking  of  you.  I  see  you  in  Rome,  living  in 
your  lonely  rooms,  with  not  one  to  look  after  you, 
and  then  my  life  becomes  bitter,  for  I  think  that  the 
happiness  which  I  find  here  has  not  come  to  me  by 


172  SISTER    TERESA 

right,  that  I  have  snatched  it.  My  duty  is  with  you, 
and  we  can  never  be  happy  except  when  we  are  do- 
ing our  duty.  But  you  said  you  did  not  wish  me 
to  come  to  you  in  Rome ;  you  left  me  to  look  after 
the  sale  of  Dowlands  and  of  my  flat ;  you  said  you 
were  going  to  live  with  the  friars,  and  that  I  should 
be  in  your  way  until  you  had  had  time  to  find  lodg- 
ings for  me.  Indeed  it  was  by  your  wish  that  I 
came  here.  As  you  did  not  want  me  I  came  here  to 
help  those  who  did  want  me,  and  I  am  helping  them. 
My  singing  brings  crowds  to  Benediction  every  day, 
I  am  not  in  the  least  vain  about  my  singing  now. 
But  I  am  praising  myself.  So  I  will  tell  you  in- 
stead of  the  Prioress,  who  is  certainly  a  wonderful 
woman.  I  see  a  great  deal  of  her,  and  she  seems  to 
read  me  through  and  through,  and  to  see  things  in 
me  which  I  do  not  know  myself,  but  which  are, 
nevertheless,  quite  true.  The  other  day,  when  I 
told  her  I  had  never  been  happy  until  I  came  here, 
and  that  it  seemed  to  me  I  had  found  out  my  life 
at  last,  she  said, — 

"  ^  My  dear  Evelyn,  you  have  hardly  any  per- 
ception of  what  our  life  is,  you  know  it  only  from 
the  outside,  you  are  still  an  actress,  you  are  acting 
on  a  different  stage,  that  is  all.' 

"  I  could  not  answer  her,  for  I  felt  I  had  adapted 
myself  to  the  convent  as  I  might  to  a  new  part;  I 
do  not  say  that  the  new  part  is  not  the  part  I  shall 
play  to  the  end,  but  now  and  again  I  catch  myself 
playing  a  part.     We  are  always  playing  parts  in 


SISTKU    TERESA  173 

our  life,  no  one  is  ever  perfectly  natural;  we  are 
all  conscious  of  our  actions — at  least  1  am.  An  ex- 
ample will  explain  what  I  mean.  The  little  peni- 
tential exercises,  such  as  kissing  the  floor,  as  a  sign 
of  contrition  for  some  petty  fault,  or  kneeling  for 
permission  to  pass  to  one's  place  in  choir  or  refec- 
tory if  one  should  chance  to  be  late,  are  much  more 
distasteful  to  the  other  nuns  than  to  me.  The  other 
novices  run  from  the  furthest  end  of  the  convent 
at  the  first  sound  of  the  bell,  to  avoid  the  risk  of 
what  seems  to  them  a  humiliating  ordeal.  I  look 
upon  these  things  as  the  etiquette  of  the  convent, 
just  as  it  is  the  etiquette  of  the  stage  to  allow  a 
man  to  kiss  you  whom  you  do  not  care  for  in  the 
least.  The  Prioress  did  not  suspect  how  true  her 
remark  was,  and  I  did  not  tell  her  that  in  the  first 
week  I  was  deliberately  late  for  dinner  in  order  to 
test  the  sensation  of  kneeling  before  the  entire  com- 
munitv  on  the  bare  refectorv  floor. 

'^  The  other  day  when  I  was  washing  up  dishes 
in  the  scullery,  I  laughed  aloud.  Of  course  there 
is  nothing  strange  in  it  at  all,  but  from  the  point  of 
view^  of  the  world  it  is  difficult  to  imagine  a 
stranger  transformation  than  the  transformation 
of  a  prima  donna  into  a  scullery  maid.  But  the 
world !  Does  it  matter  what  it  thinks  I  Shall  I 
ever  forget  Owen  Asher's  persistent  worldliness; 
he  sacrificed  everything  to  the  enjoyment  of  the 
moment,  and  was  the  unhappiest  man  I  ever  knew. 
He  was  imhappy  always,  and  the  happiness  which 


174:  SISTER    TERESA 

I  could  not  give  him  and  which  he  could  not  give 
me  I  see  shining  out  of  the  eyes  of  the  nuns,  out 
of  the  eyes  of  these  women  who  have  renounced 
everything  that  is  said  to  make  life  pleasant. 

"  The  nuns  have  their  trials,  and  they  bear  them 
as  well  as  may  be,  for  they  are  merely  women,  not 
angels,  and  are  not  possessed  of  any  supernatural 
power  of  detachment  from  the  ills  of  life.  I  have 
seen  them  struggle  against  weariness  and  failing 
health,  and  the  novices  sometimes  astonish  me  by 
candid  little  grumbles,  generally  about  the  food. 
There  is  a  good  deal  of  irritability  in  the  convent, 
but  I  am  sure  that  the  nuns  do  possess  a  divine 
something  which  outbalances  the  discomfort  of 
their  lives.  They  possess  an  extraordinary  seren- 
ity of  mind,  and  their  optimism  is  delightful.  As 
far  as  the  rule  allows  them  they  are  kind  to  one  an- 
other, and  I  have  seen  none  of  that  petty  spite  which 
is  said  to  exist  whenever  a  number  of  women  gather 
together." 

In  a  letter  to  Monsignor  she  said: 

"  Mother  Philippa  is  our  manager,  all  the  house 
accounts  are  in  her  charge,  and  her  watchful  econ- 
omy saved  the  convent  from  shipwreck  these  many 
years.  Her  talent  for  domestic  economy  found  an 
excellent  outlet  in  the  administration  of  an  impe- 
cunious convent.  If  she  had  stayed  at  home,  her 
abilities  would  have  withered  and  she  would  have 
become  as  useless  as  her  dull  sisters;    not  one  of 


SISTER    TERESA  176 

them  is  married,  and  it  is  not  likely  that  Mother 
Philippa  would  have  married  if  she  had  remained 
at  home.  She  is  the  one  success  in  the  family — 
three  dull  sisters  and  a  dull  mother  come  to  consult 
the  nun  as  to  what  they  shall  do  in  every  emer- 
gency. Unfortunately  they  do  not  always  take  her 
advice,  and  when  they  do  not  mistakes  are  the  re- 
sult. Mother  Philippa's  one  trouble  is  her  rela- 
tions ;  she  dreads  their  visits.  ^  Poor  Fred,'  she 
said  the  other  day,  speaking  of  her  family,  ^  is  only 
an  expense.'  Was  not  that  clever  of  her?  What 
an  admirable  summing  up!  I  can  picture  him 
coming  back  from  Canada  and  quite  cheerfully  ac- 
cepting the  welcome  of  the  doleful  sisters.  But 
this  admirable  woman  is  apparently  not  more  pious 
than  you  or  I. 

"  Forgive  my  irrepressible  levity,  dear  Monsig- 
nor.  The  Reverend  Mother  often  reproves  me  for 
it,  but  my  levity  has  helped  me  through  five  months 
in  a  nunnery.  Mother  Philippa  is  one  side  of 
St.  Teresa,  and  she  exists  in  every  convent,  but 
the  other  side  of  St.  Teresa  I  have  not  been  able 
to  discover  in  anyone.  Mother  Philippa  is  whole- 
some prose — the  very  best  and  plainest  prose.  The 
nearest  thing  to  St.  Teresa  here  is  certainly  Sis- 
ter Ma'-y  John.  She  does  not  fall  to  the  ground 
and  remain  rigid,  but  the  other  day  after  Benedic- 
tion she  forgot  to  give  the  sign  to  go.  It  is  the 
custom  for  the  eldest  Sister  present  to  give  the  sign 
to  leave  the  chapel.     We  waited  for  Sister  Mary 


IVt)  SISTEE    TERESA 

John,  but  no  sign  came.  She  remained  kneeling, 
lost  in  her  delight,  no  doubt  seeing  God  in  heaven 
quite  clearly.  The  novices  coughed  and  moved  their 
feet,. but  Sister  Mary  John  did  not  hear  them.  At 
last  one  of  the  novices  nudged  her,  and  she  awoke 
as  from  a  dream,  and  heard  as  in  amazement  that 
the  half -hour  was  over.  Half  an  hour!  What  is 
half  an  hour  to  one  who  has  been  in  eternity  ?  Cen- 
turies looked  out  of  her  eyes. 

"  She  and  the  Reverend  Mother  represent  to  me 
what  is  most  personal  in  the  convent,  and  what  is 
nearest  to  me.  Veronica  is  set  apart;  she  is  an 
abstraction,  she  is  perfect  innocence  walking  on 
earth,  a  white  robe  on  which  no  speck  of  dust  of 
the  way  has  fallen,  an  angel  by  Era  Angelico ;  but 
the  Reverend  Mother  and  Sister  Mary  John,  like 
myself,  have  breathed  the  breath  of  the  world ;  and 
those  who  have  breathed  the  breath  of  the  world 
are  easily  recognisable  from  those  who  have  not.  I 
have  often  thouglit  this  mixture  of  worldly  alloy 
is  necessary  to  give  hardness  and  durability  to  the 
metal.  If  the  whole  of  the  community  were  com- 
posed of  nuns  like  Veronica  and  Mother  Hilda  it 
could  not  continue,  and  I  think  the  pecuniary  diffi- 
culties of  this  convent  are  largely  owing  to  the  fact 
that  the  late  Reverend  Mother  was  without  experi- 
ence of  the  world.  She,  like  Veronica  and  Mother 
Hilda,  had  passed  from  the  schoolroom  to  the  no- 
vitiate; but  the  present  Prioress  is  a  woman  who 
has  had  experience  of  the  life  of  the  world,  and  I 


SISTER    TERESA  177' 

confess  to  a  great  curiosity  to  know  what  forced 
her  to  give  up  the  world.  I  feel  sure  that  some 
calamity  fell  upon  her  suddenly.  I  cannot  other- 
wise explain  this  subtle  intelligence,  lithe  and  hard 
as  steel,  and  eyes  which  divine  at  once  a  state  of 
soul,  and  out  of  which  some  far-off  sorrow  shines. 
I  can  see  the  Prioress  in  the  world,  and  the  world 
crumbling  away  at  her  feet,  and  every  path  crum- 
bling away  except  the  path  that  led  her  to  the  con- 
vent. But  I  cannot  see  her  in  the  intermediate 
stages. 

"  Regarding  myself,  what  have  I  to  tell  you  ? — 
that  I  am  beginning  to  fear  I  have  not  a  vocation." 

In  another  letter  to  her  father  she  said : 

"  Oh,  to  be  in  Rome  and  to  hear  the  wonderful 
choir  you  write  to  me  about !  To  exchange  the  wail- 
ing and  wobbling  of  half-a-dozen  nuns  trying  to 
sing  a  piece  of  plain  chant  for  a  Mass  by  Palestrina. 
How  I  long  for  Rome  now  that  spring  should  be 
here,  a  spare  scant  spring  in  England,  a  beauti- 
ful, gracious,  Southern  spring  in  Rome,  the  sweet 
Easter  time  chiming  over  scent-laden  hills  and 
plains.  Here  on  the  edge  of  the  Common  the  winter 
is  still  bitter,  loud  winds  are  still  blowing  against 
our  door.  The  Common  is  covered  with  snow,  and 
the  gorse  is  burnt  up  with  frost. .  This  Common 
land  is  all  we  can  see  of  the  world.  In  summer 
horsemen  gallop  along  the  hillsides,  and  the  golf 
players  appear  in  silhouette  on  the  evening  skies. 


178  SISTER    TERESA 

But  in  winter  the  Common  is  a  waste.  Yesterday 
I  saw  a  bent  figure  making  its  way  against  the  blast. 
A  frost-bound  and  a  soaking  Common  I  have  seen 
from  the  windows  of  the  novitiate  until  my  eyes 
turn  from  it  in  despair.  Once,  half  in  jest,  half  in 
earnest,  I  suggested  to  our  Novice  Mistress  that  we 
might  have  the  blinds  down  and  light  the  lamp. 
And  when  I  look  away  from  this  terrible  Common 
land  I  am  confronted  with  the  continued  childish- 
ness of  the  nuns  and  the  triviality  of  their  interests ; 
and  the  childishness  within  and  the  barren  land 
beyond  the  walls  seem  to  interact  upon  each  other, 
and  enforce  the  impression  of  living  death.  Of 
course  I  know  that  the  triviality  which  shocks  me  is 
merely  an  outer  skin  which  covers  a  great  purpose. 
I  try  to  remember  this,  but  it  is  difficult  for  one 
who  has  lived  long  in  the  world  to  accept  the  trivial 
externality  of  scapulars  and  candles.  And  the  trite 
religious  instruction  which  we  receive  in  the  novi- 
tiate often  jars.  One  of  the  things  that  shocks  one 
most  is  the  discovery  that  there  are  fashions  in 
pieties  as  well  as  in  petticoats.  Not  being  able  to 
imitate  each  others'  bonnets,  the  nuns  imitate  each 
others'  pieties.  If  one  says  the  Rosary  at  a  special 
hour,  others  want  to  do  the  same,  and  saints  come 
into,  and  go  out  of,  fashion.  The  Prioress's  special 
saint,  or  the  saint  of  any  favourite  nun,  attracts  a 
great  deal  of  admiration,  and  for  the  proper  stimu- 
lation of  these  special  pieties  it  seems  necessary  to 
put  up  little  shrines  in  the  passages,  and  the  erec- 


SISTEK    TERESA  179 

tion  and  the  maintenance  of  these  shrines  fall  on 
me.  The  way  the  novices  and  postulants  run  to 
me  for  candles  for  the  shrine  of  the  saint  that  at- 
tracts their  devotion  at  that  particular  moment  is 
very  trying;  and  it  is  hard  not  to  tell  them  that 
they  have  merely  exchanged  their  dolls  for  saints. 
So  I  philosophise  in  this  fashion :  ^  There  are 
trivial-minded  women,  I  say,  in  convents  as  there 
are  in  the  world,  and  the  trivial-minded  pray,  as 
they  play,  in  trivial  fashion.  To  the  fashionable 
woman  the  gown  she  is  going  to  wear  is  the  centre 
of  things,  and  the  whole  of  her  life  is  spent  seeking 
to  escape  from  herself  in  little  distractions.  Only 
a  year  ago  the  important  to  me  was  whether  I  could 
sing  a  scene  as  easily  as  another  singer.  The  truth 
is,  the  external  life  is,  and  always  must  be,  trivial.'  " 

In  another  letter  to  Monsignor  she  said; 

"  One  of  my  greatest  consolations  is  to  watch  the 
evening  as  the  sun  sets  in  the  violet  distances  of 
Richmond  Park.  I  think  it  was  Ulick  Dean  who 
first  taught  me  to  see  the  country  in  the  fairy-like 
way  in  which  I  see  it  now.  Or  perhaps  it  is,  and 
I  think  it  is,  that  the  country  is  a  great  consola- 
tion to  everyone  who  has  passed  their  first  youth. 
The  country  you  see  has  always  been,  there  never 
was  a  time  it  did  not  exist.  The  country  is  nearly 
as  immortal  as  the  sky,  and  it  is  nearer  to  us.  I 
don't  think  I  could  live  in  town  again.     When  I 


180  SISTEK    TERESA 

leave  here  I  shall  live  in  the  country.  The  last 
time  I  returned  to  Monmouth  Mansions  I  looked 
round  and  I  felt  suddenly  that  I  could  not  go  on 
living  in  a  flat.  I  felt  I  could  not  endure  the  daily 
routine,  that  I  should  have  to  do  something  else ; 
then  I  felt  the  selfishness  of  it — getting  up  in  the 
morning  to  discuss  with  my  servant  what  we  should 
eat.  That  is  always  the  first  thing  one  does  in  a 
flat,  and  then  one  thinks  how  one  can  spend  the 
day  most  pleasantly  to  oneself.  One  thinks  of  the 
visits  one  may  pay  in  the  afternoon,  and  of  the 
concerts  and  the  theatres  one  may  go  to  in  the  even- 
ing. To  lead  such  a  life  year  after  year,  knowing 
w^ell  that  thousands  have  not  suflicient  food,  nor  a 
room  to  sit  in,  has  become  impossible  to  me.  Then 
I  need  occupation.  I  am  no  longer  interested  in 
the  things  that  used  to  interest  me,  and  since  I 
have  been  in  this  convent  I  have  gone  much  further 
on  the  road  on  w^hich  I  started  when  I  first  went 
to  confess  to  you.  So  when  I  leave  here,  whether 
I  live  in  England  or  in  Italy,  I  shall  live  in  the 
country,  for  my  own  sake  and  for  the  sake  of  others ; 
for  I  have  a  little  plan.  I  have  thought  that  if  I 
save  tw^o-thirds  of  my  income  I  shall  have  enough 
money  in  three  years  to  buy  a  cottage  and  a  h^rge 
garden.  Once  you  get  away  from  London  land  is 
not  dear,  and  in  Italy  I  daresay  it  is  cheaper  still. 

"  I  used  to  do  housework  when  a  girl,  and  the 
convent  has  brought  me  back  to  it  again,  for  here 
everyone  has  to  sweep  and  to  scrub  and  to  brush. 


SISTER    TERESA  181 

So  1  have  thought  that  with  another  woman  to  help 
me,  a  sort  of  lady  help,  or  a  nurse,  one  who  has 
been  trained  as  a  hospital  nurse,  we  might  be  able 
to  attend  on  ourselves  and  the  six  little  cripple  boys 
whom  I  would  take  to  live  with  me.  The  little  boys 
could  work  in  the  garden,  and  we  could  sell  the 
vegetables  and  the  eggs  and  the  chickens,  for  of 
course  we  shall  keep  a  poultry  farm  too;  and  I 
hear  there  is  a  good  deal  of  money  to  be  made  by 
poultry.  "VVe  could  keep  a  pony  and  light  cart, 
and  one  of  the  little  boys,  the  one  that  was  the 
least  crippled,  could  look  after  the  pony.  There 
would  not  be  much  work  to  do  in  the  cottage;  for 
things  do  not  get  dirty  in  the  country  as  they  do 
in  town,  and  there  would  not  be  much  furniture — 
some  plain  tables  and  plain  cupboards  and  plain 
shelves.  The  shelves  will  be  painted  green,  and 
some  nice  green  and  yelloAV  pottery  will  stand  upon 
them.  I  must  do  something  when  I  leave  here, 
and  I  can  think  of  nothing  better  than  that ;  I  am 
indeed  very  full  of  it,  I  think  of  it  all  day,  and 
only  fear  that  something  will  happen  to  prevent  the 
realisation  of  my  little  plans.  For  things  never 
come  quite  right  in  this  world;  the  threads  seem 
to  slip  out  of  our  hands  as  we  are  going  to  tie  the 
knot.  There  will  be  no  wall  round  our  garden, 
but  a  yew  hedge  will  make  a  good  background  for 
flowers,  lilies  especially.  The  wall  is  one  of  the 
things  that  spoil  the  convent  for  me.  But  round 
my  cottage,  as  I  have  said,  there  will  be  no  wall, 


182  SISTEK    TERESA 

only  a  hedge,  and  all  round  for  miles  that  sort  of 
rich  swelling  country  which  I  love — shady  hillsides, 
and  a  little  distance  off  a  stream  twisting  through 
flat  meadows  by  a  sleepy  town;  such  a  stream  as 
brought  the  swan  to  Elsa  of  Brabant;  you  see  one 
cannot  quite  forget  one's  past.  I  long  for  the  coun- 
try and  for  my  little  home  for  crippled  children. 
I  once  saw  a  hare  beating  a  tambourine  in  Regent 
Street,  and  the  beating  of  the  tambourine  by  this 
woodland  creature  seemed  to  make  an  infinitely 
pathetic  picture,  and  one  which  is  strangely  sym- 
bolic of  many  human  lives.  I  long,  as  the  poor  hare 
must  have  longed,  for  wide  hillsides ;  and,  landing 
on  the  highest  point  in  the  garden,  I  lose  myself 
in  the  blue  distances.  I  cannot  tell  you  how  I  long 
for  the  return  of  the  spring — I  want  to  see  the 
garden  returning  to  life.  St.  Francis  used  to 
sit  talking  to  the  fire,  and  worshipped  the  sun,  or 
very  nearly,  and  I  like  to  watch  the  tall  trees.  How 
gaily  they  talk  in  a  light  wind,  and  how  sadly  they 
whisper  when  the  wind  dies,  and  in  the  dense  winter 
rain  they  stand  as  miserable  as  animals  in  the  rain." 


XX 

"  You  see,  Evelyn,"  the  Prioress  said,  "  it  is 
contrary  to  the  whole  spirit  of  the  religious  life  to 
treat  the  lay  Sisters  as  servants,  and  though  I  am 
sure  you  did  not  intend  any  unkindness,  they  have 
complained  to  me  once  or  twice  of  the  way  you 
order  them  about." 

"  But,  dear  Mother,  it  seems  to  me  that  we're  all 
inferior  to  the  lay  Sisters.    To  slight  them " 

"  I'm  sure  you  did  not  do  so  intentionally." 

"  I  have  said,  do  hurry  up,  but  I  only  meant  that 
I  was  in  a  hurry.  I  do  not  think  anything  you 
could  have  said  could  have  pained  me  more." 

Seeing  that  Evelyn  was  hurt,  the  Prioress  said 
the  Sisters  had  no  doubt  forgotten  all  about  it  by 
now.  But  Evelyn  wanted  to  know  which  of  the 
Sisters  had  complained,  so  that  she  might  beg  her 
pardon. 

"  She  does  not  want  you  to  beg  her  pardon." 

"  I  beg  you  to  allow  me ;  it  will  be  better  that  I 
should,  the  benefit  will  be  mine." 

The  Prioress  shook  her  head,  and  the  conversa- 
tion passed  from  the  lay  Sisters  to  the  difficult, 
question  of  the  contemplative  and  active  orders. 
Evelyn  had  lately  been  reading  the  story  of  a  ser- 
vant girl,  who  had  discovered  genius  in  herself, 

183 


184  SISTER    TERESA^ 

genius,  Evelyn  said,  compared  to  the  genius  of 
Joan  of  Arc.  It  had  all  happened  in  a  little  sea- 
port town,  and  it  had  begun  in  a  sudden  conviction 
which  the  new  priest  had  felt  when  he  entered  the 
town  for  the  first  time.  As  he  ascended  the  avenue 
leading  to  the  town  he  had  heard  a  voice, — 

"  What  have  you  come  here  for  if  not  to  rescue 
the  aged  poor  ?" 

He  wondered,  not  knowing  how  he  was  to  do  this, 
being  bereft  of  all  money.  But  the  tissue  of  things 
had  woven  itself  out  miraculously — miraculous 
hands  had  always  seemed  weaving  on  that  woof, 
and  the  first  lives  to  be  woven  into  it  were  the  little 
seamstresses,  who  had  sat  amid  the  rocks  on  Sun- 
day in  front  of  the  bright  gorse  asking  each  other 
what  the  priest  had  meant  when  he  had  made  them 
promise  never  to  be  wanting  in  their  duties  of  char- 
ity towards  the  aged  poor;  very  likely  the  priest 
did  not  know  himself  when  he  exacted  the  promise 
from  them. 

Xot  till  then  does  Jeanne,  the  marvellous,  ex- 
traordinary Jeanne,  appear  in  the  story. 

She  had  been  a  goat-herd  in  childhood,  and  the 
single  event  of  her  life  in  any  way  ominous  of  her 
mission  was  her  refusal  of  an  offer  of  marriage.  A 
young  sailor  had  been  anxious  to  marry  her,  and 
she  had  at  first  seemed  willing,  and  then,  without 
knowing  why,  from  some  impulse,  she  had  hesi- 
tated, and  when  he  returned  from  a  voyage  she  had 
told  him  she  never  intended  to  marrv.     The  won- 


SISTER    TERESA  185 

der  of  this  lies  in  the  fact  that  she  never  knew  in 
the  least  why  she  had  refused  the  sailor,  not  why 
she  was  determined  not  to  marry,  and  it  was  not 
for  nearly  twenty-seven  years  afterwards  that  the 
importance  of  this  early  act  of  renunciation  had 
been  revealed  to  her.  For  twenty  years  she  worked 
in  humble  service.  She  attended  a  priest  till  he 
died,  and  then  she  went  to  live  with  his  sister,  and 
remained  with  her  till  she  died.  During  all  these 
twenty  years  Jeanne  had  saved  only  twenty-four 
pounds,  and  with  this  money  she  returned  to  her 
little  seaport  town,  where  there  was  no  provision 
for  the  aged  poor,  where  the  aged  poor  starved  in 
the  streets  or  in  garrets,  in  filth  and  vermin,  in 
hunger  and  thirst,  without  hope  of  relief  from  any- 
one. 

To  this  cruel  little  village  Jeanne  returned  with 
her  twenty-four  pounds.  She  rented  a  garret  with 
an  old  woman  who  was  hardly  able  to  help  herself 
at  all ;  and  every  day  she  went  to  the  market-place 
to  find  some  humble  employment ;  and  so  she  lived 
till  she  was  forty-seven.  It  was  then  that  the  two 
little  seamstresses  heard  of  her,  and  the  Cure  sent 
for  her  and  told  her  of  the  good  that  might  be  done 
for  the  aged  poor  and  the  blind  beggars  and  such 
like  who  prowled  about  the  walls  of  the  churches 
in  rags  and  vermin.  On  leaving  the  priest  she  had 
said, — 

"  I  do  not  understand,  but  I  have  never  heard 
anyone  speak  so  beautifully." 


186  SISTEE    TERESA 

But  how  were  they,  who  could  hardly  support 
themselves,  to  support  the  poor  ?  She  did  not  know, 
but  next  day,  when  she  went  to  see  the  priest,  she 
understood  everything,  and  it  was  in  her  garret 
that  she  harboured  the  first  pauper,  a  poor  blind 
woman,  whom  the  seamstresses  had  discovered  in 
the  last  stage  of  neglect  and  age.  It  was  Jeanne 
who  discovered  how  they  might  support  those  who 
could  not  support  themselves.  It  was  she  who 
seized  the  basket  and  said,  "  I'll  beg  for  them." 

"  There  is  a  genius  for  many  things  besides  the 
singing  of  operas,  the  painting  of  pictures,  and  the 
writing  of  books,"  Evelyn  said,  "  and  Jeanne's 
genius  was  begging  for  her  poor  folk.  There  is 
nothing  more  touching  in  the  world's  history  than 
her  journey  in  the  milk  cart  to  the  regatta." 

She  was  accustomed  to  beg  from  door  to  door, 
but  to  intrude  upon  the  crowd  of  fashionable  folk 
bent  on  amusement  she  did  not  dare.  Her  courage 
almost  failed  her,  but  clasping  the  cross  which  hung 
round  her  neck,  she  entered  the  crowd  of  pleasure- 
seekers,  saying,  "  Won't  you  give  me  something  for 
my  poor  folk  ?" 

She  begged  with  genius — a  tall,  thin,  curious, 
fantastic  figure,  considered  simple  by  some,  but 
really  gifted  for  the  task  which  had  been  discov- 
ered to  her  in  her  middle  age. 

She  begged  that  day  and  every  day  with  genius. 
It  is  told  that,  bored  by  her  persistence,  a  man  had 
slapped  her  in  the  face^  and  that  she  had  answered, 


SISTER    TERESA  187 

"  That  is  perfectly  right,  that  is  just  what  is  suited 
to  me ;  now  what  are  you  going  to  give  me  for  my 
poor  folk?"  On  another  occasion  at  some  regatta 
or  fancy  fair,  where  wealth  and  pleasure  had  col- 
lected, some  young  men  had  teased  her,  and  having 
teased  her  they  apologised  and  had  given  her  five 
francs,  and  she  had  answered,  ^^  At  that  price  you 
may  tease  me  as  much  as  you  please.'' 

"  It  is  extraordinary  to  think  how  this  woman, 
unlettered,  unread,  and  uncouth,  had  been  able  to 
invent  a  system  of  charity  which  has  penetrated  all 
over  Europe.  I  do  not  know  which,"  Evelyn  said, 
"  I  realise  most  clearly,  Jeanne  or  Teresa ;  they  do 
not  seem  to  me  like  women  w^ho  have  existed,  but 
like  women  who  always  exist,  who  are  part  of  the 
gpiritual  substance  with  which  the  world  is  made." 

The  Prioress  reminded  Evelyn  of  Jeanne's  start 
in  the  morning,  when,  after  having  made  the  beds 
and  cleaned  the  garret,  she  took  down  her  big  bas- 
ket. 

"  Now  do  not  forget  to  ask  for  the  halfpenny  a 
week  which  I  used  to  get  at  the  grocery  store." 
"  Now  I  am  sure  you  will  forget  to  ask  for  my 
soup." 

Many  used  to  hide  their  food  under  the  bed- 
clothes, and  sell  it  surreptitiously  for  food  for  the 
pigs,  leaving  the  Little  Sisters  almost  starving ;  but 
their  good  humour  was  unfailing,  they  only  said, 
"  So-and-so  has  not  been  so  nice  as  usual  this  after- 
iioon." 


188  SISTER    TERESA 

"  Yet,  I  cannot  but  feel — dear  Mother,  ho^  atn 
I  to  say  it  ? — that  the  Little  Sisters '^ 

"  Do  not  be  afraid,  Evelyn,"  the  Prioi-ess  said ; 
^'  you  mean  that  their  way  is  perhaps  a  better  way 
than  ours.'^ 

'^  It  seems  so,  Mother,  does  it  not  ?" 

'^  My  dear  Evelyn,  it  is  permissible  to  have 
doubts  on  such  a  subject — which  is  the  better,  acts 
of  mercy  or  prayer  ?  It  is  impossible  not  to  doubt ; 
we  have  all  had  our  doubts  on  this  subject,  and  it 
is  the  weakness  of  our  intelligence  that  causes  these 
doubts  to  arise." 

"  How  is  that.  Mother  ?"  said  Evelyn. 

"  It  is  so  easy  to  realise  the  beauty  of  the  relief 
of  material  suffering — the  flesh  is  always  with  us; 
we  realise  so  easily  what  it  suffers,  and  the  relief 
of  suffering  seems  to  us  the  only  good.  Suffering 
appeals  to  us  through  such  direct  channels.  A  hun- 
gry man  always  seems  more  real  than  a  man  who 
prays.  But  in  truth  bread  and  prayer  are  as  neces- 
sary to  man,  one  as  the  other.  When  the  veil  of 
materialism  is  woven  too  densely,  someone  always 
comes  to  draw  it  aside. 

"  You  have  never  heard  the  story  of  the  founda- 
tion of  our  order.  It  will  not  appeal  to  the  animal 
sympathies  as  readily  as  the  foundation  of  the  Little 
Sisters  of  the  Poor,  but  I  do  not  think  it  is  less 
human." 

Then  the  Reverend  Mother  told  how,  in  Lyons, 
a  sudden  craving  for  God  had  occurred  in  a  time 


SISTER    TERESA  189 

of  t^xtraordinary  prosperity.  Three  young  women, 
daughters  of  bankers  and  a  silk  merchant,  sur- 
rounded with  every  luxury,  wearied  of  their  wealth 
and  the  pleasures  which  wealth  brought  them,  had 
almost  simultaneously  decided,  without  any  inter- 
communication, that  this  world  is  a  vanity,  and  that 
they  were  willing  to  forego  it. 

This  story  went  to  the  core  of  Evelyn^s  life.  For 
she  too  had  had  wealth  and  fame  and  pleasure,  and 
had  found  them  to  be  nothing. 

'*  But  how,"  she  asked,  '^  had  these  women  found 
that  the  world  was  not  worthy  of  their  seeking? 
Did  they  grow  weary  of  it  as  I  did,  or  was  there 
a  revelation?" 

"  There  were  three  distinct  revelations,"  the 
Prioress  replied.  "  Their  souls  were  long  prepared 
for  the  revelation ;  they  wearied  of  the  luxury  and 
materialism  of  their  lives  and  the  pleasures  with 
which  they  were  surrounded,  and  sought  to  escape 
from  it.  They  were  good  women  and  they  waited 
for  a  sign,  which  was  vouchsafed  them.  They  were 
not  women  who  were  specially  gifted  like  Jeanne 
to  attend  on  the  poor.  At  Lyons,  at  that  time,  the 
poor  were  not  so  2Dlentiful  as  they  were  in  the  little 
seaport  town,  and  it  was  towards  prayer  the  souls 
of  these  good  women  turned  rather  than  to  good 
works.  It  appears  they  suddenly  craved  for  prayer 
as  they  might  have  for  light.  They  felt  the  world 
was  dying,  for  no  one  prayed.  But  how  to  give  a 
practical    form   to   their    idea    they    didn't    know. 


190  SISTER    TEEESA 

Maybe  thej  doubted,  as  we  all  doubt  in  moments 
of  weakness,  the  utility  of  prayer,  and  argued 
against  their  instincts.  One  certainly  did.  She 
herself  tells  how,  unable  to  decide  whether  she 
should  embrace  a  practical  or  a  contemplative  life, 
she  knelt  down  while  a  great  fire  was  blazing  in 
the  town.  Owing  to  the  strength  of  the  wind,  the 
firemen  could  not  extinguish  it.  The  fire  was  in 
one  of  the  great  silk  warehouses,  but  it  was  not  for 
the  preservation  of  her  father's  wealth  that  she 
prayed,  but  for  the  safety  of  an  asylum  for  the 
aged  which  adjoined  the  warehouse,  and  which  at 
that  moment  seemed  sure  of  destruction.  She  was 
hardly  on  her  knees  when  the  wind  suddenly  lulled, 
and  the  flames  were  extinguished.  And  at  the  same 
moment  she  heard  a  voice  in  her  heart  saying  to 
her  quite  plainly,  '  If  one  prayer  can  do  this,  what 
might  not  an  order  do  whose  mission  it  is  to 
pray.'  Her  father,  of  course,  told  her  that  she  was 
mistaken,  and  that  she  had  heard  no  voice.  But  of 
what  use  is  it  to  tell  those  who  have  heard  a  voice 
that  they  have  not  heard  it  ?" 

"  And  the  other  two  girls — were  each  of  them 
vouchsafed  a  sign?''  Evelyn  asked. 

"  Yes,  in  each  case  there  was  a  sign.  One  was 
to  be  married  to  a  rich  silk  merchant — a  man  whom 
she  could  not  care  for  under  any  circumstances, 
and  who  was  doubly  repugnant  to  her  now  she  had 
conceived  the  idea  of  a  religious  life — a  man  full 
of  worldliness,  and  concerned  only  with  this  world. 


SISTER    TERESA  191 

There  seemed  no  escape  for  her,  and  she  felt  she 
had  not  the  power  to  resist  the  will  of  her  entire 
family,  so  she  turned  to  God  and  begged  of  him 
to  provide  some  means  of  escape.  Next  day  her 
suitor  told  her  he  could  not  marry  her.  In  the 
night  it  had  been  revealed  to  him  that  this  could 
not  be.  He  had  struggled  against  the  conviction, 
and  he  had  argued  with  himself,  but  in  vain.  He 
could  explain  nothing,  except  that  it  was  so." 

"  And  the  third  one  ?"  Evelyn  asked. 

"  The  third  incident  was  perhaps  even  more 
striking.  She  was  walking  through  a  wood,  and  on 
the  other  side  of  the  river  she  saw  two  men  en- 
gaged in  a  duel.  She  heard  afterwards  that  this 
duel  was  to  be  fought  to  the  death.  But  they  were 
evenly  matched  and  neither  could  vanquish  the 
other.  They  returned  to  the  contest  again  and 
again,  and,  in  the  face  of  this  murder  to  be  com- 
mitted, she  knelt  down  and  prayed  that  it  might 
be  averted.  Suddenly  one  declared  he  could  fight 
no  further,  a  conviction  having  been  borne  sud- 
denly in  upon  him  that  he  was  doing  wrong,  and, 
unable  to  resist  it,  he  told  his  enemy  what  had 
happened,  saying,  ^  It  matters  not  in  the  least  to 
me  if  you  consider  me  a  coward,  I  cannot  continue 
this  fight.'  These  three  women  confided  their  ex- 
periences to  the  same  confessor.  The  priest  him- 
self had  long  been  meditating  a  convent  for  men  or 
women  whose  lives  should  be  wholly  devoted  to 
prayer,  for  it  had  been  borne  in  upon  him  too  that 


192  SISTER    TERESA 

some  make-weight  was  necessary  in  this  city  wholly 
devoted  to  the  making  of  money  and  to  the  pleasure 
which  money  can  buy." 

Evelyn  was  interested  in  the  story  of  these  three 
founders  of  the  order — these  three  women  bom 
among  the  sins  of  luxury  in  a  materialistic  society, 
to  whom  had  come  three  distinct  revelations.  She 
was  about  to  ask  the  Prioress  the  intimate  history 
of  the  first  foundation  when  the  Reverend  Mother 
interrupted,  as  it  were,  her  thoughts,  and  said, — 

^^  Any  depreciation  of  the  active  orders  is  of 
course  out  of  the  question,  but  the  desire  to  under- 
stand them  is  not  depreciation.  The  good  done  by 
the  active  orders  in  the  world  is  more  obvious, 
more  readily  understood  by  the  average  man,  who 
will  say,  '  Ah,  the  Little  Sisters  of  the  Poor — I 
understand  that;  but  the  Carmelites,  who  merely 
pray,  of  what  good  are  they?'  But  all  that  the 
average  man  does  not  understand  is  not  necessarily 
useless.  The  truth  is  that  the  active  orders  and  the 
contemplative  orders  are  identical  when  we  look  be- 
low the  surface." 

"  How  is  that.  Mother  V 

^'  The  mission  of  the  active  orders  is  to  relieve 
physical  suffering,  and  they  accomplish  a  great  deal, 
but  not  in  the  direction  which  the  world  thinks. 
The  world  thinks  that  the  object  of  the  Little  Sis- 
ters of  the  Poor  is  the  elimination  of  suffering  from 
the  world,  or  at  least  the  reduction  of  suffer- 
ing." 


SISTEK    TERESA  193 

"  Surely  their  efforts  make  an  appreciable  differ- 
ence in  the  sufferings  of  the  world  ?" 

"  My  dear  child,  a  certain  amount  of  suffering 
is  inseparable  from  human  life.  If  you  eliminate 
on  one  side  the  growth  is  greater  on  the  other.  By 
preserving  the  lives  of  the  old  people  you  make  the 
struggle  harder  for  others.  There  is  much  the 
same  amount  of  suffering  in  the  world  as  there  was 
before  the  Little  Sisters  of  the  Poor  began  their 
work.  It  is  very  doubtful  whether  the  suffering  to- 
day is  not  equal  to  the  amount  of  suffering  that  ex- 
isted fifty  years  before  the  order  came  into  existence. 
That  is  what  I  mean." 

"  Then,  dear  Mother,  the  order  does  not  fulfil  its 
purpose  ?" 

'^  On  the  contrary,  Evelyn,  it  fulfils  its  purpose, 
but  its  purpose  is  not  that  which  the  world  thinks. 
It  is  by  the  noble  example  they  set  that  the  Little 
Sisters  of  the  Poor  achieve  their  purpose.  It  is  by 
forsaking  the  world  that  they  achieve  their  purpose, 
by  their  manifestation  that  the  things  of  this  world 
are  not  worth  considering.  They  pray  largely  in 
outward  acts,  whereas  the  contemplative  orders 
pray  only  in  thought — the  purpose,  as  I  have  said, 
of  both  is  identical,  that  this  world  is  a  negligible 
quantity.  The  good  they  do  is  by  the  creation  of 
an  atmosphere  of  goodness.  There  are  two  atmos- 
pheres in  this  world — the  atmosphere  of  good  and 
the  atmosphere  of  evil,  and  both  are  created  by 

thought,  whether  thought  in  the  concrete  form  of  an 

13 


194  SISTER    TERESA 

act  or  by  thought  in  its  purest  form,  an  aspiration. 
All  those  who  devote  themselves  to  prayer,  whether 
their  prayers  take  the  form  of  good  works  or  whether 
their  prayer  passes  in  thought,  collaborate  in  the 
production  of  a  moral  atmosphere,  and  it  is  the 
moral  atmosphere  created  by  prayer  which  enables 
man  to  continue  in  human  life. 

"  Of  the  power  of  thought  over  matter  I  have 
given  you  three  instances;  but  you,  my  dear  Eve- 
lyn, need  less  proof  of  it  than  any  other,  for  have 
you  not  often  told  me  how  our  prayers,  on  more 
than  one  occasion,  have  saved  you  from  the  evil 
designs  of  your  lover  ?" 

"  As  you  state  it,  Mother,  it  seems  clear ;  I  did 
not  think  of  it  in  that  way  before.^' 

"  How  interesting  it  would  be  to  write  the  history 
of  an  order,  the  central  idea  of  which  should  be  the 
power  of  thought  over  matter." 

But  the  three  nuns  who  came  to  England  about 
thirty  years  ago  to  make  the  English  foundation  did 
not  interest  Evelyn  very  keenly.  Her  interest  was 
not  caught  until  the  Prioress  told  her  how,  just  at 
the  time  when  they  seemed  on  the  point  of  failure, 
a  young  girl,  in  the  best  society,  rich,  beautiful,  and 
surrounded  by  admirers,  came  to  think,  just  as  Eve- 
lyn had  done,  that  the  life  of  the  world  was  a  mere 
vanity,  and  had  decided  to  dedicate  her  life  to  God. 
Her  story  was  this  : 

"  She  had  been  educated  in  a  convent,  and  when 
she  left,  after  her  first  ball,  she  told  her  father  and 


SISTER    TERESA  195 

mother  that  she  wished  to  be  a  nun.  Her  parents 
besought  her  to  consider  her  resolution  and  she 
agreed  to  do  this,  and  for  two  years  she  went  to  balls 
and  parties,  seemingly  the  most  worldly  among  her 
companions;  but  at  the  end  of  a  year  of  her  pro- 
bationship  in  the  world  she  said,  ^  I  have  waited  a 
year,  because  you  wished  me  to,  and  now  I  have 
come  to  tell  you  that  I  wish  to  enter  a  convent.' 
You  see  how  analogous  her  story  is  to  yours,  Evelyn. 
It  was  the  same  vocation  that  brought  you  both  here. 
It  was  with  five  thousand  pounds  out  of  the  thirty 
thousand  that  this  girl  gave  that  the  nuns  bought 
the  old  country  house  in  which  we  are  now  living. 
The  late  Prioress  is  blamed  for  this  extravagance, 
and  I  think  very  unjustly,  for  how  could  she  have 
foreseen  the  increased  taxation.  As  a  growing  sub- 
urb the  taxation  became  heavier." 

Then  Evelyn  heard  that  a  portion  of  the  old 
house  had  been  put  aside  for  guest  rooms ;  but  the 
boarders  who  came  were  of  the  non-paying  sort — 
penniless  converts  turned  out  by  their  relations, 
governesses,  etc.  And  she  heard  how  no  more  rich 
postulants  came  to  the  convent,  and  of  the  money 
the  convent  had  lost  in  the  railway,  and  how  it  came 
to  be  lost  at  a  most  unfortunate  time,  as  only  a  few 
days  before  the  lawyer  had  written  to  say  that  the 
Australian  mine,  in  which  most  of  their  money  was 
invested,  had  become  bankrupt.  So  there  was  no 
help  for  it,  they  had  to  mortgage  the  property,  and 
that  was  the  beginning  of  their  real  difficulties,  for 


196  SISTER    TERESA 

as  the  land  became  valuable,  the  mortgagees  became 
more  and  more  anxious  to  foreclose.  Once  the  con- 
vent had  been  late  in  paying  the  yearly  interest  on 
the  money  they  had  borrowed,  and  the  mortgagees 
had  insisted  upon  the  penal  interest. 

"  But,  my  dear  Reverend  Mother,  I  have  offered 
to  lend  you  the  money." 

"  It  is  impossible  for  us  to  take  your  money, 
Evelyn ;  we  want  a  great  deal  of  money,  and  a  more 
legitimate  means  must  be  found  than  borrowing 
from  you.  The  convent  roof  wants  re-slating  and 
the  chapel  wants  re-decorating,  and  we  spare  every 
penny  we  can  from  our  food  and  clothing  to  buy 
candles  for  the  altar;  and  the  twelve  candles  that 
have  to  burn  there  are  quite  an  item  in  themselves ; 
and  another  item,  and  a  very  considerable  one,  is 
the  expense  of  the  resident  chaplain.  The  nearest 
parish  is  some  distance,  and  cannot  supply  a  priest 
every  day.  Frankly,  Evelyn,  we  are  at  our  wits' 
end." 

"  You  have  no  idea.  Mother,  how  all  you  have 
said  interests  me,  and  the  personal  application  I 
make  of  it  to  my  own  life.  You  said  just  now  that 
you  hoped  one  day  I  should  become  a  member  of 
this  community.  I  am  well  aware  how  incongruous 
it  would  be  to  have  me  in  a  convent,  and  how  ill  my 
past  life  accords  with  your  lives;  but  I  have  long 
wished  to  be  a  nun — the  idea  has  been  growing 
within  me,  and  as  far  as  I  know  it  is  quite  a  sincere 
one ;  but  there  is  an  impediment,  and  it  is  that  that 


SISTER   TERESA  19T 

is  breaking  my  heart — I  do  not  see  how  I  can  be- 
come a  nun.  I  am  so  happy  here  that  I  dread  the 
letter  which  will  come  and  order  me  away  from 
you." 

"  Then  your  anxiety  is  not  that  you  should  fail 
to  live  according  to  our  rule  ?" 

"  Kot  in  the  least,  Mother,  the  reason  is  not  a 
personal  one ;  it  is  on  account  of  my  father.  You 
see  I  cannot  forsake  him  a  second  time ;  forgive  me, 
Mother,  for  of  course  the  motive  is  quite  a  different 
one,  but  I  cannot  forsake  my  father." 

The  Prioress  asked  her  if  she  had  spoken  to  Mon- 
signor  on  this  subject  or  if  she  had  laid  the  matter 
frankly  before  her  father,  telling  him  that  she  be- 
lieved she  had  a  vocation  for  a  religious  life. 

She  said  she  had  not  consulted  Monsignor  at  all 
nor  her  father  in  the  explicit  manner  in  which  the 
Prioress  seemed  to  think  she  should  have  done.  The 
blood  flew  to  her  face,  and  she  laughed  a  little,  and 
then  confessed,  with  some  reluctance  and  a  sense 
of  incongruity,  that  it  was  Owen  Asher  who  had 
told  her  that  her  duty  lay  with  her  father  and  not 
at  all  with  the  convent,  and  that  by  going  into  a  con- 
vent she  was  only  obeying  a  personal  inclination, 
and  according  to  her  new  conception  of  life  personal 
inclination  was  the  very  thing  which  should  be 
avoided  on  all  occasions.  He  had  therefore  bidden 
her  go  to  her  father,  this  was  her  last  obedience  to 
him ;   and  she  had  promised  her  father  to  go  to  him 


198  SISTER    TERESA 

as  soon  as  he  was  settled  in  Rome  and  was  ready  to 
receive  her. 

The  conversation  paused,  and  then  Evelyn  asked 
the  Prioress  to  advise  her. 

"  I  cannot  forsake  my  father,  can  I  ?  Owen 
Asher  was  quite  right  when  he  told  me  I  must  go 
and  live  with  my  father." 

''  The  advice  comes  to  you  in  a  very  doubtful 
way,  my  dear  child,  and  from  an  equivocal  side; 
I  will  only  say  you  have  reason  to  doubt  the  counsel 
of  a  man  who  was  capable  of  acting  towards  a 
young  girl  as  he  acted  towards  you ;  I  will  not  say 
any  more — at  least  not  for  the  present." 

'^  But  you  will  think  over  it,  dear  Mother,  and 
tell  me." 

Late  that  night  a  telegram  came  from  Rome  tell- 
ing Evelyn  that  her  father  was  dangerously  ill,  and 
that  she  was  to  start  at  once  for  Rome. 


XXI 

The  wind  had  gathered  the  snow  into  the  bushes 
and  all  the  corners  of  the  Common,  and  the  whole 
earth  seemed  but  a  little  brown  patch,  with  a  dead 
grey  sky  sweeping  by.  For  many  months  the  sky 
had  been  grey,  and  heavy  clouds  had  passed  slowly, 
like  a  funeral,  above  the  low  horizon'.  The  wind 
had  torn  the  convent  garden  until  nothing  but  a  few 
twigs  remained;  even  the  laurels  seemed  about  to 
lose  their  leaves.  The  nuns  had  retreated  with 
blown  skirts;  Sister  Mary  John  had  had  to  relin- 
quish her  digging,  and  her  jackdaw  had  sought 
shelter  in  the  hen-house. 

One  night  when  the  nuns  assembled  for  evening 
prayer,  the  north  wind  seemed  to  lift  the  roof  as 
with  hands;  the  windows  were  shaken;  the  nuns 
divined  the  wrath  of  God  in  the  wind,  and  Miss 
Dingle,  who  had  learnt,  through  pious  incantations, 
that  the  Evil  One  would  attempt  a  descent  into  the 
convent,  ran  to  warn  the  porteress  of  the  danger. 
At  that  moment  the  wind  was  so  loud  that  the  por- 
teress  listened  perforce  to  the  imaginations  of  Miss 
Dingle's  weak  brain,  thinking,  in  spite  of  herself, 
that  some  communication  had  been  vouchsafed  to 
Miss  Dingle.  "Who  knows,"  her  thoughts  said, 
"  who  can  say ;    the  ways  of  Providence  are  in- 

199 


200  SISTEK    TEKESA 

scrutable ;"  and  she  looked  at  the  little  daft  woman 
as  if  she  were  a  messenger. 

As  they  stood  calculating  the  strength  of  the  lock 
and  hinges  the  door  bell  suddenly  began  to  jingle. 

"  He  would  not  ring  the  bell ;  he  would  come 
down  the  chimney,"  said  Miss  Dingle. 

"  But  who  can  it  be,"  said  the  porteress,  "  and 
at  this  hour  V 

"  This  will  save  you ;"  Miss  Dingle  thrust  a 
rosary  into  the  nun's  hand  and  fled  down  the  pas- 
sage;   "  be  sure  to  throw  it  over  his  neck." 

The  nun  tried  to  collect  her  scattered  thoughts 
and  her  courage.  Again  the  bell  jingled;  this  time 
the  peal  seemed  crazier  than  the  first,  and  rousing 
herself  into  action,  she  asked  through  the  grating 
who  it  might  be. 

"  It  is  I,  Sister  Evelyn ;  open  the  door  quickly, 
Sister  Agnes." 

The  nun  held  the  door  open,  thanking  God  it  was 
not  the  Devil,  and  Evelyn  dragged  her  trunk 
through  the  door,  letting  it  drop  upon  the  mat 
abruptly. 

"  Tell  dear  Mother  I  want  to  speak  to  her — say 
that  I  must  see  her — be  sure  you  say  that,  and  I  will 
wait  for  her  in  the  parlour." 

"  There  is  no  light  there ;   I  will  fetch  one." 

"  ^ever  mind,  don't  trouble.  I  don't  want  a 
light;  but  go  to  the  Reverend  Mother  and  tell  her 
I  must  see  her  before  I  see  anyone  else." 

There  could  be  no  doubt  that  something  grave 


SISTER    TERESA  201 

had  happened,  and  the  porteress  hurried  down  the 
passage.  Evelyn  sat  at  the  table  looking  into  the 
darkness,  thinking  of  the  last  time  she  had  been  in 
this  room.  It  was  just  a  month  ago  that  she  had 
been  called  away  to  Rome.  For  days  he  had  fluc- 
tuated between  life  and  death,  sometimes  waking  to 
consciousness,  then  falling  back  into  trance.  In 
spite  of  the  hopes  the  doctors  had  held  out  to  him, 
he  insisted  that  he  was  dying.  "  I  am  worn  to  a 
thread,"  he  said.  "  I  shall  flicker  like  that  candle 
when  it  reaches  the  socket — and  then  I  shall  go  out. 
But  I  am  not  afraid  of  death — death  is  a  great  ex- 
perience, and  we  are  all  better  for  every  experience. 
There  is  only  one  thing '' 

He  was  thinking  of  his  work;  he  was  sorry  he 
was  called  away  before  his  work  was  done ;  and  then 
he  seemed  to  forget  it,  to  be  absorbed  in  things  of 
greater  importance. 

And  Evelyn  thought  she  must  have  drowsed  a 
little  as  she  sat  waiting  for  the  sound  of  the  nun^s 
soft  woollen  slippers  in  the  hall,  for  now  the  Pri- 
oress stood  beside  her  she  had  not  heard  her  come  in. 

"  My  dear  Evelyn,  you  need  not  tell  me,  I  know 
what  has  happened.  Come,  let  us  kneel  down  and 
say  a  prayer." 

She  was  about  to  say  she  needed  no  prayer,  but 
the  impulse  to  obey  the  Reverend  Mother  was 
stronger,  and  the  prayer  they  said  seemed  to  quiet 
her  grief,  and  she  began  to  speak  of  the  month  she 
had  spent  in  Rome.     Once  the  Reverend  Mother 


202  SISTER    TERESA 

sought  to  dissuade  her  from  the  painful  story,  but 
seeing  that  it  relieved  her  to  tell  it  she  allowed  her 
to  tell,  and  she  told  it  in  her  impetuous  way.  Some- 
times the  wind  interrupted  the  Prioress's  attention, 
and  she  thought  of  the  safety  of  her  roofs,  and  once 
Evelyn  noticed  the  wind,  and  her  notice  of  it  served 
to  accentuate  the  terror  of  her  grief.  "  I  waited  by 
his  bedside  seeing  the  soul  prepare  for  departure. 
The  soul  begins  to  leave  the  body  several  days  before 
it  goes ;  it  flies  round  and  round  like  a  bird  that  is 
going  to  some  distant  country.  I  must  tell  you  all 
about  it,  Mother.  He  lay  for  hours  and  hours,  look 
ing  into  a  corner  of  the  room.  I  am  sure  he  saw 
something  there;  and  one  night  1  heard  him  call 
me.  I  went  to  him  and  asked  him  what  he  wanted ; 
but  he  lay  quite  quiet,  looking  into  the  corner  of  the 
room,  and  then  he  said,  ^  The  wall  has  been  taken 
away.'  I  know  he  saw  something  there.  He  saw 
something,  he  learnt  something  in  that  last  moment 
that  we  do  not  know.  That  last  moment  is  the  only 
real  moment  of  our  lives,  the  only  true  moment — 
all  the  rest  is  falsehood,  delirium,  froth.  The  rest 
of  life  is  contradictions,  distractions,  and  lies,  but 
in  the  moment  before  death  I  am  sure  everything 
becomes  quite  clear  to  us.  Then  we  learn  what  we 
are.  We  do  not  know  ourselves  until  then.  If  I 
ask  who  am  I,  what  am  I,  there  is  no  answer.  We 
do  not  believe  in  ourselves,  because  we  do  not  know 
who  we  are ;  we  do  not  know  enough  of  ourselves  to 
believe  in  anything.     We  do  not  believe;    we  ac- 


SISTER    TERESA  203 

quiesce  that  certain  things  are  so  because  it  is  neces- 
sary to  acquiesce,  but  we  do  not  believe  in  anything, 
not  even  that  we  are  going  to  die ;  for  if  we  did  we 
should  live  for  death  and  not  for  life.  Oh,  Mother, 
I  am  very  different  from  the  woman  who  left  the 
convent  a  month  ago.  To  sit  by  a  dying  man,  day 
after  day,  and  talk  of  death  is  a  great  experience. 
It  is  not  so  much  what  he  says  to  you  about  death  as 
what  you  can  read  in  his  face ;  no,  not  read,  you 
guess  the  truths  which  he  is  beginning  to  experience. 
"  I  know  that  my  father  knew  the  truth  before  he 
died.  Yes,  he  was  always  a  Catholic — that  is  not 
what  I  mean ;  I  mean  the  real  belief  that  comes  at 
that  moment,  when  we  know  what  we  are  and  where 
we  are  going.  We  are  certain  of  everything  then. 
Then  we  believe  as  we  have  never  believed  before. 
You  will  tell  me  that  those  who  live  in  the  world 
believe  in  God — so  they  do,  I  suppose,  in  a  way; 
they  acquiesce ;  but  if  they  really  believed,  if  they 
knew,  as  my  father  knew  before  he  died,  they  would 
give  up  everything  and  go  about  in  rags,  and  pray, 
and  lose  themselves  in  thoughts  of  God.  They 
would  forget  to  eat,  they  would  not  notice  hunger 
or  thirst;  and  they  would  fade  away,  their  eyes 
fixed  upon  something  that  we  may  not  see — that 
something  which  my  father  saw  before  he  died. 
Even  here,  in  this  convent  of  perpetual  adoration, 
you  do  not  seem  to  me  to  believe  enough,  for  if  you 
believed  that  God  were  really  there,  on  the  altar, 
you  would  neither  eat  nor  drink ;  you  would  remain 


204  SISTER    TERESA 

kneeling  until  you  lost  yourselves  in  death — until 
you  found  your  true  selves." 

"  After  an  experience  like  yours,  Evelyn,  one  sees 
life  quite  differently,  and  it  is  through  such  expe- 
riences that  we  discover  our  real  selves  and  the  way 
that  God  intends  us  to  walk  in.  It  is  only  through 
great  grief  that  we  come  to  know  ourselves.  We 
can  easily  dispense  with  our  joys ;  but  no  one  would 
forego  any  great  sorrow  they  have  been  through.  J 
believe  we  would  endure  it  all  over  again  rather  than 
that  we  should  be  as  we  were  before." 

"  Mother,  all  that  is  real  in  life  is  our  sense  of 
its  unreality." 

"  But  we  are  here  for  God's  own  purpose ;  we 
must  remember  that.  We  must  live  because  it  is 
God's  holy  will." 

"  Sometimes  it  is  difficult  to  live ;  there  are  timei? 
when  it  seems  much  easier  to  die." 

"  My  dear  child,  I  have  been  through  what  yoi^ 
are  going  through  now,  and  it  may  help  you  to  know 
that  in  times  of  great  sorrow  it  is  easier  to  live  in 
a  convent  than  it  is  to  live  in  the  world.  You 
know  what  our  life  is.  You  will  find  its  simplicity 
a  help." 

"  Will  you  have  me  in  the  convent  ?" 

"  Yes,  of  course  we  will.  You  did  not  think  we 
should  close  our  door  on  you  in  your  trouble.  You 
came  to  us  in  our  trouble." 

"  I  knew  you  wouldn't,  Mother." 

She  stretched  out  her  hand,  and  clasping  the  old 


SISTER    TERESA  205 

nun's  hand  she  told  her  of  her  journey  to  Rome,  of 
her  life  in  Rome,  of  her  daily  prayers  in  a  certain 
church.  She  spoke  of  the  nurses,  of  the  doctors, 
and  the  funeral,  and  then  burst  into  tears,  and 
the  Prioress  strove  to  calm  her  in  vain.  Evelyn 
reproached  herself  for  having  allowed  her  father  to 
go  to  Rome  without  her.  The  convent  had  been  a 
temptation,  and  she  had  yielded  to  it  as  she  had  to 
other  temptations.  Then  seeing  that  she  had  pained 
the  Reverend  Mother,  she  asked  her  to  forgive 
her. 

"  It  is  hard  to  distinguish  sometimes  between 
right  and  wrong;  it  should  be  easy,  but  it  isn't, 
and  I  know  that  it  pleased  me  to  help  the  convent 
with  my  singing.  I  do  not  know  that  that  is  not 
why  I  have  come  here.  Is  my  grief  real  grief? 
Sometimes  I  forget  it;  sometimes  I  find  myself 
thinking  of  indifferent  things — of  what  I  shall 
sing  for  you  at  Benediction — at  other  times  I  am 
overwhelmed  in  grief,  and  then  through  all  my 
grief  the  thought  comes:  that  this  is  as  it  should 
be." 

The  wise  Prioress  did  not  answer  her.  A  few 
moments  seemed  a  great  while,  and  she  awoke  from 
her  trance  to  hear  the  Prioress  telling  her  that  she. 
had  experienced  a  great  sorrow  very  early  in  her 
life;  it  had  been  the  means  of  awakening  in  her 
that  sense  of  the  unreality  of  things  which  comes  to 
us  all  sooner  or  later ;  and  in  the  midst  of  her  grief 
Evelyn  wondered  how  this  woman  had  survived  her 


206  SISTER    TERESA 

grief  for  forty  years ;    how  she  still  ruled  her  con- 
vent according  to  her  idea. 

Evelyn  did  not  know  it,  but  the  Prioress  knew 
that  her  will  had  gone  out  to  Evelyn  like  a  friend, 
and  she  knew  that  her  eyes  had  a  power;  and  she 
wished  Evelyn  to  lose  her  individuality  in  a  rule  of 
life  clear  and  explicit.  And  Evelyn  wished  the 
same.  Obedience  had  come  to  seem  the  only  sweet- 
ness left  in  the  world.  Her  past  life,  all  of  it — she 
did  not  except  a  single  year,  not  even  her  postulancy 
— it  all  seemed  trivial  and  amateurish :  now  she 
was  to  begin  the  serious  business  of  life. 


XXII 

Next  morning  she  felt  that  to  make  her  own  bed 
in  the  morning  and  to  eat  simple  food  in  silence 
were  part  of  the  serious  business  of  life.  After 
breakfast  she  was  sent  to  the  sacristy  to  assist  Veron- 
ica, and  she  was  glad  to  be  sent  into  the  garden  to 
get  some  laurel  leaves.  But  she  wandered,  unable 
to  collect  her  thoughts  sufficiently  to  find  what  she 
was  sent  for,  until  Sister  Mary  John  came  from  her 
digging  and  asked  her  what  she  was  seeking.  Eve- 
lyn had  forgotten,  and  it  was  with  an  effort  she 
remembered.  She  had  been  sent  to  gather  laurel 
leaves. 

"  I  will  gather  them  for  you ;  I  know  where  they 
are.     Take  my  spade  and  dig  a  little  while." 

"  I  do  not  knoAV  how  to  dig." 

"  I'll  show  you.  This  is  a  bed  for  spring  onions, 
and  it  wants  digging  out.  You  press  the  spade  in 
as  far  as  you  can,  pull  down  the  handle  so,  and  take 
out  the  earth." 

She  did  as  she  was  bidden,  and  suddenly  she  felt 
that  she  must  dig  to  live.  The  smell  of  the  earth  re- 
freshed her,  and  as  a  bleak  wind  was  blowing,  she 
had  to  dig  hard  to  keep  herself  warm.  She  worked 
on  till  she  had  to  pause  for  breath,  and,  leaning  on 
her  spade,  she  looked  round,  and  saw  that  the  trees 

207 


208  SISTEE    TERESA 

before  breaking  into  leaf  had  become  grey.  She 
wandered  a  little  way  from  her  digging,  and, 
watched  some  crocuses  pushing  through  the  loose 
earth.  She  pondered,  wishing  herself  alone  with 
nature  amid  mountains  or  by  the  seashore.  Sud- 
denly she  heard  a  singing  in  the  air;  a  lark  flew 
from  the  Common,  uttering  its  incessant  song — a 
quaint  interval,  reminding  her  of  the  bagpipes,  and 
then  a  passionate  cry  of  joy — two  notes  uttered 
again  and  again.  "  A  love  call"  Evelyn  thought  it 
must  be,  and  the  bird  fell  suddenly,  swooping,  glid- 
ing along  the  air.  "  To  its  nest,"  Evelyn  thought, 
"  to  its  mate." 

She  had  forgotten  her  work,  but  she  was  not 
thinking  of  her  father;  her  mind  was  vague,  and 
the  lark  had  rearisen,  or  was  it  another  bird  flying 
towards  her  ?  "  It  must  be  the  same,"  she  thought ; 
"  the  same  Common  cannot  produce  two  birds  that 
sing  so  beautifully."  She  had  never  cared  to  hear 
a  bird  sing  before,  and  she  wondered  if  the  rea- 
son were  that  she  had  moved  a  little  nearer  to 
nature. 

Miss  Dingle,  who  stood  at  a  little  distance,  was 
exorcising  some  gooseberry  bushes  with  her  rosary. 
She  withdrew  like  a  timid  animal,  but  curiosity  was 
stronger  than  fear,  and  she  came  back  like  one  who 
wanted  to  talk  to  someone,  and,  hoping  to  encourage 
her,  Evelyn  asked  her  if  she  had  seen  the  devil 
lately.  She  hung  down  her  head  and  retreated,  but 
when  she  turned  away,  Evelyn  heard  her  say  that 


SISTEK    TEKESA  209, 

she  had  not  seen  much  of  him  lately,  only  once  that 
morning. 

"  He  gets  more  artful,  you  know,  but  he  is  about ; 
I  know  he  is  about." 

She  came  back  to  Evelyn  and  began  to  tell  her 
where  she  might  see  the  devil  if  she  wished,  if  she 
were  not  afraid. 

"  The  bushes  grow  very  thick  in  that  corner,  and 
I  don't  like  to  go  there.  ...  I  have  hunted  him 
out  of  these  bushes.  He  is  not  here.  You  needn't 
be  afraid.    My  rosary  has  been  over  them  all." 

Evelyn  could  see  that  Miss  Dingle  wished  her  to 
exorcise  the  dangerous  corner,  and  she  offered  to 
do  so. 

"  You  have  two  rosaries ;  you  might  lend  me 
one." 

"  "Noy  I  don't  think  I  could.  I  want  two ;  one 
for  each  hand,  you  see.  ...  I  have  not  seen  you  in 
the  garden  this  last  day  or  two.  You  have  been 
away,  haven't  you  ?" 

"  I  have  been  in  Kome." 

"  In  Rome !  Then  why  don't  you  go  there,"  she 
said,  pointing  to  the  dangerous  corner,  "  and 
frighten  him  away?  You  don't  need  a  rosary  if 
you  have  touched  the  precious  relics.  You  would  be 
able  to  drive  him  out  of  the  garden,  and  out  of  the 
park  too,  perhaps,  though  the  park  is  a  very  big 
place.  But  here  comes  Sister  Mary  John.  You 
will  tell  me  another  time  if  you  have  brought  back 
anything  that  the  Pope  has  worn." 

14 


210  SISTER    TERESA 

Sister  Mary  John  came  striding  over  the  broken. 
earth,  followed  by  her  jackdaw.  The  bird  stopped 
to  pick  up  a  fat  worm,  and  the  nun  sent  Miss  Dingle 
away  very  summarily. 

"  I  can't  have  you  here,  Alice.  Go  to  the  sum- 
mer-house and  drive  the  devil  away  with  your  holy 
pictures.  There's  not  time  for  you,  dear,  either," 
she  said  to  the  jackdaw,  who  had  just  alighted  on 
her  shoulder.  And,  looking  up  and  down  a  plot 
of  ground  twenty  yards  long  and  about  ten  wide, 
protected  from  the  east  wind  by  a  high  yew  hedge, 
she  said,  "  This  is  the  rhubarb  bed,  and  this  piece," 
she  said,  walking  to  another  plot  between  the  yew 
hedge  and  the  gooseberry  bushes,  "  will  have  to  be 
dug  up ;   we  were  short  of  vegetables  last  year." 

At  the  prospect  of  so  much  digging  Evelyn's 
courage  failed  her,  and  she  was  relieved  to  hear 
that  one  of  these  beds  had  been  dug  in  the  autumn, 
and  that  no  more  would  be  required  from  her  than 
the  hoeing  out  of  the  weeds. 

But  she  found  hoeing  harder  work  than  she  had 
expected,  and  when  she  had  cleared  a  large  piece  of 
weeds  she  had  to  go  over  the  ground  again,  having 
missed  a  great  many. 

At  dinner-time  she  thought  she  was  too  tired  to 
eat,  but  Sister  Mary  John  consoled  her  with  the  as- 
surance that  she  would  soon  get  accustomed  to  the 
work,  and  in  order  that  she  might  do  so,  the  nun 
kept  her  digging  from  week's  end  to  week's  end. 
Evelyn  said  she  had  found  salvation  in  the  garden, 


SISTER    TERESA  211 

but  Sister  Mary  John  answered  that  an  absent- 
minded  person  was  no  saving  of  labour  in  a  garden ; 
and  without  further  words  the  nun  told  her  she  was 
to  go  in  front  with  a  dibble  and  make  holes  for  the 
potatoes,  for  Sister  Mary  John  said  she  could  not 
be  trusted  with  the  seed  potatoes,  that  she  would  be 
sure  to  break  the  shoots.  Sister  Mary  John  seemed 
to  think  that  she  should  know  by  instinct  that 
French  beans  need  not  be  set  as  closely  together  as 
the  scarlet  runners;  nor  could  the  nun  understand 
that  it  was  possible  to  live  twenty  years  in  the  world 
without  knowing  that  broad  beans  must  be  trodden 
firmly  into  the  ground. 

In  about  three  weeks  their  work  was  done  in  the 
kitchen  garden,  and  Sister  Mary  John  said  they 
must  weed  the  flower  beds  or  there  would  be  no 
flowers  for  the  Virgin  in  May.  They  weeded  the 
beds  for  many  days,  filling  in  the  gaps  with  plants 
from  the  nursery.  Soon  after  came  the  seed  sow- 
ing :  mignonette,  sweet  peas,  stocks,  larkspurs,  pop- 
pies, and  nasturtiums,  all.  of  which  should  have 
been  sown  earlier,  the  nun  said,  only  the  vegetables 
had  taken  all  their  time,  and  there  was  no  one  but 
she  who  cared  for  the  garden.  They  all  liked  to 
see  the  flowers  on  the  altar,  "  but  not  one  of  them 
will  tie  up  her  habit  and  dig,  and  they  are  as  ig- 
norant as  you  are,  dear." 

'^  Sister,  that  is  unkind.  I've  learnt  as  much  aa 
could  be  expected  in  a  month." 

"  You're  not  as  careless  as  you  were." 


212  SISTER    TERESA 

"  I  had  a  friend/'  Evelyn  said,  "  who  used  to 
hear  the  earth  as  we  hear  voices,  or  very  nearly.  .  .  . 
How  mysteriously  soft  the  wind  blows  over  the 
Common !" 

"  God  created  the  earth  before  He  created  man," 
the  nun  said,  as  she  passed  on,  weeding  rapidl^f 
and  skilfully.  "  Our  love  of  the  earth  is  deeper 
than  our  love  of  art." 

Sister  Mary  John  pointed  to  the  daffodils  that  a 
warm  night  had  nearly  brought  to  blossom,  and 
Evelyn  followed  the  nun  with  her  eyes,  as  she  wan- 
dered by  the  beds.  She  moved  so  silently  and 
worked  so  instinctively  that  she  seemed  as  much  a 
part  of  the  garden  as  the  wind,  or  the  rain,  or  the 
sun. 


XXIII 

Evelyn  perceived  the  wisdom  of  the  Prioress  in 
these  long  mornings  spent  in  manual  work.  Ve- 
ronica, on  account  of  her  age,  could  not  reprove  her, 
nor  could  she  submit  herself  so  easily  to  Veronica's 
authority,  and  she  often  stood  looking  through  the 
sacristy  forgetful  of  the  half-cleaned  candle-stick 
in  her  hand.  In  these  moments  the  cup  of  life 
seemed  unendurably  bitter ;  a  long  life  in  the  con- 
vent affrighted  her,  and  she  could  not  return  to  the 
world.  To  remember  that  she  was  alone  and  would 
have  to  go  on  living  had  become  a  grief  that  pierced 
her  like  a  sword;  a  sense  of  desolation  swept  over 
her  mind;  sometimes  in  the  midst  of  her  singing 
she  would  lose  control  over  herself,  and  the  Sister 
would  look  round  from  the  organ,  fearing  she  would 
not  be  able  to  continue  her  song. 

"  She  must  take  the  veil,"  the  Prioress  said  to 
herself  as  she  knelt  in  her  stall ;  "  nothing  else  will 
set  her  free  from  her  grief."  The  Prioress  re- 
membered the  great  relief  that  the  mere  putting  on 
of  the  habit  brings  to  the  soul;  and  she  rose  from 
her  knees  quite  determined.  She  would  be  opposed 
by  Mother  Hilda,  but  Mother  Hilda  would  not  have 
Mother  Philippa's  support. 

"  I  look  upon  her  past  life/'  the  sub-Prioress  said, 

213 


214  SISTER    TERESA 

''  as  so  much  dead  wood ;  all  the  rubble  and  wreck 
must  be  cleared  awaj  before  the  new  growth  can 
begin  in  her.  You  will  agree,  Mother,  that  the  veil 
makes  a  great  difference;  it's  like  marriage  after 
a  long  engagement — you  know  what  I  mean,  dear 
Mother.-' 

"  Yes,  I  think  I  do,"  the  Prioress  answered,  look- 
ing approvingly  at  the  sub-Prioress.  "  When  one 
has  taken  the  white  veil,  the  past  is  behind  us,  one 
knows  where  one  is  going.  But  I  fear.  Mother 
Hilda,  that  you  are  not  with  us  in  this  matter." 

"  It's  because  of  Evelyn's  present  state  of  mind 
that  I  do  not  feel  sure  that  this  is  the  best  moment 
for  her  to  receive  the  white  veil.  When  her  mood 
passes,  as  it  will  pass,  she  may  think  quite  differ- 
ently." 

"  I  do  not  think  that,"  the  Prioress  said.  "  A 
more  serious  objection  is  that  she  has  only  been  in 
the  novitiate  three  months." 

"  And  her  postulancy  has  been  broken  by  a 
month  in  Rome.  It  should  begin  again,"  said 
Mother  Hilda. 

"  On  that  point  the  bishop  will  have  to  be  con- 
sulted," and  she  tried  to  conciliate  Mother  Hilda 
by  reminding  her  that  Monsignor  had  telegraphed 
for  Evelyn.  '^  Her  journey  to  Rome,  you  will 
admit,  was  quite  unavoidable.  Will  you  tell  her, 
Mother  Hilda,  when  you  go  downstairs,  that  I  shall 
be  glad  to  see  her  in  my  room  ?" 

And  when  Evelyn  came  to  the  Prioress's  room 


SISTEK    TERESA  216 

she  was  addressed  as  Sister  Teresa,  and  the  Prioress 
told  her  that  she  had  chosen  that  name  on  account 
of  Evelyn's  admiration  for  the  saint's  writings  and 
character. 

"  I  felt  I  should  like  to  call  you  Teresa,  and  you 
will  prove  yourself  worthy  of  the  name,  my  dear 
child." 

"  But,  Mother,  my  postulancy !'' 

^'  Hasn't  the  Mother  Mistress  told  you  that  I  in- , 
tend  to  lay  your  case  before  the  bishop.  To-morrow 
you  go  into  the  week's  retreat  which  precedes  the 
clothing.  And  now  you  must  think  of  your  past 
life  as  being  really  behind  you;  you  are  Evelyn 
Innes  no  longer,  you  are  Sister  Teresa." 

"  But  my  past,  dear  Mother,  has  been  behind  me 
this  long  while.  There  can  be  no  manner  of  doubt 
about  that.  I  am  filled  with  wonder  when  I  think 
of  the  life  I  used  to  lead  before  my  conversion." 

"  You  feel  that  you  could  not  return  to  the 
world?" 

"  To  my  old  friends,  to  those  who  still  pursue 
shadows?  No,  dear  Mother,  I  could  not  go  back 
to  the  world,  to  the  stage,  and  sing  operas  for  the 
money  and  applause  I  should  get  by  singing." 

"  That  I  believe ;  but  do  you  think  that  the  life 
here  is  the  most  suitable  to  you?  Is  it  the  life  of 
your  deliberate  choice?  Remember  that  there  are 
many  other  rules  of  life — there  are  the  active 
orders." 

"  Dear  Mother,  there  is  no  time  for  thinking  any 


216  SISTEE    TEEESA 

more ;  I  must  act.  I  cannot  tell  you  if  the  rule  here 
is  more  suitable  than  some  other  rule  which  I  have 
not  tried.  I  have  had  some  experience  of  your  rule ; 
if  you  will  take  me  I  am  yours.  If  you  do  not" — 
she  stopped,  and  stood  looking  at  the  Eeverend 
Mother — "  I  cannot  think  what  will  happen.  I've 
been  through  a  great  deal,  and  feel  that  I  am  un- 
equal to  any  further  experiments.  Don't  you  know 
what  I  mean  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  think  I  know  very  well  indeed.  .  .  . 
You  are  still  suffering  from  the  shock  of  your 
father's  death." 

"  My  father's  death,  dear  Mother,  was  a  great 
shock  to  me,  but  his  death  was  only  a  link  in  a  very 
long  chain ;  from  the  very  beginning  it  was  all  or- 
dained, every  step  was  marked  out.  At  the  time  I 
did  not  understand  why  I  was  perplexed,  why  I 
had  doubts,  but  things  have  become  much  clearer. 
In  my  youth  I  accepted  the  conventions,  but  there 
was  always  an  uneasy  feeling  in  my  heart.  This 
feeling  was  in  me  in  the  beginning,  but  it  died 
away ;  for  years  I  think  I  must  have  lived  without 
scruples  of  any  kind.  My  tether  was  a  long  one ;  I 
wandered  far,  but  suddenly  I  came  to  the  end  of  it. 
That's  how  it  was." 

"  You  see,  my  dear  child,  my  responsibility  in 
admitting  you  to  the  convent  is  a  great  one.  Con- 
vince me  that  you  have  a  vocation,  and  I  shall  not 
mind  the  responsibility." 

"  How  shall  I  convince  you,  Mother  ?" 


SISTER    TERESA  217 

"  By  telling  me  your  story,  by  telling  me  every- 
think  you  know  about  yourself.  If  I  am  a  nun,  I 
am  an  old  woman,  and  I  suffered  deeply  before  I 
came  here." 

Evelyn  told  her  story  from  the  day  she  met  Owen 
Asher  to  the  day  she  went  to  confession  to  Mon- 
signor. 

"  And  the  strange  part  of  it  is  that  I  would  not 
marry.  Owen  Asher  often  asked  me  to  marry  him, 
but  something  always  held  me  back  from  marriage. 
Ulick  Dean  nearly  succeeded ;"  and  she  told  of  the 
extraordinary  lassitude  which  had  overcome  her  one 
evening,  how  she  had  sat  in  her  armchair  looking  at 
the  fire,  unable  to  get  up.  "  My  tether  was  a  sense 
of  that  one  sin,  for  I  always  felt  it  to  be  wrong  to 
live  with  a  man  who  was  not  your  husband;  but 
it  was  not  until  my  father  died  that  I  began  to 
perceive  that  my  life  was  wrong  from  end  to  end. 
It  usen't  to  seem  wrong  to  me  to  spend  months 
learning  an  opera  and  singing  it  for  a  great  deal 
of  money,  or  to  spend  as  much  on  a  dress  as  a  work- 
man and  his  family  could  live  on  for  a  whole  year. 
But  I  think  I  always  thought  it  wrong  to  live  with 
Owen  Asher,  and  as  I  did  not  want  to  give  up  living 
with  him,  I  was  forced  to  deny  God.  Owen  Asher 
knew  all  the  atheistical  arguments  very  well,  and 
I  read  all  the  books  he  gave  me  to  read.  But  to 
live  without  faith,  dear  Mother,  is  a  nightmare. 
Driving  home  in  the  brougham  after  singing,  I 
never  failed  to  ask  myself,  What  is  the  use  of  all 


218  SISTER    TERESA 

this  ?  it  is  all  over  now.  Sometimes  before  I  went 
down  to  the  theatre  I  used  to  say,  ^  In  three  hours 
— in  four  hours  it  will  be  all  over,  and  then  it  will 
be  the  same  as  if  I  hadn't  sung  at  all!'  If  one 
doesn't  believe  in  God,  life  ceases  to  have  a  mean- 
ing; that  is  the  atheist's  difficulty.  Owen  Asher 
used  to  feel  the  same  as  I  did.  I  remember  his  once 
stopping  me ;  he  looked  round  suddenly,  and  there 
was  such  conviction  in  his  eyes  when  he  said,  ^  Eve- 
lyn, there's  nothing  in  it.  I've  tried  everything,  and 
there's  nothing  in  it.'  Still  he  goes  on  living,  pur- 
suing pleasures  in  which  he  knows  there  is  nothing 
except  disappointment. 

"  Looking  back  upon  my  life,  that  is  how  I  see 
it.  I  cannot  live  without  faith,  without  authority, 
without  guidance.  I  am  weak,  I  require  authority. 
I  am  bound  to  tell  you  all  these  things  so  that  you 
may  be  able  to  decide  whether  I  have  a  vocation." 

"  The  ways  by  which  we  come  back  to  God  are 
many,  and  I  think  I  understand  very  well  how  you 
have  been  brought  back.  This  convent  was  but  an 
instrument  in  His  hands  for  the  purpose  of  bringing 
you  back,  and  it  may  be  it  has  served  its  purpose 
now  and  you  can  return  to  the  world.  One  can  love 
God  in  the  world  and  serve  Him  in  the  world. 
Some  serve  Him  best  in  the  world,  some  in  the 
convent.  When  your  grief  has  died  down  a  little 
you  may  be  able  to  return  to  the  world." 

The  Prioress  waited  for  Evelyn  to  answer,  but 
she  did  not  answer,  and  she  said, — 


SISTER    TERESA  219 

'^  My  dear  child,  tell  me  of  what  jou  are  think- 
ing;  confide  in  me." 

"  It's  just  that,  Mother — what  I  have  told  you. 
I  cannot  live  without  faith,  and  if  I  leave  the  con- 
vent I  lose  my  faith,  or  part  of  it.  Even  in  the 
month  I  spent  in  Rome  I  lost  something.  Dogma 
does  not  appeal  to  me  as  much  as  practice,  and 
Rome  is  full  of  worldly  ecclesiastics  who  quarrel 
and  abuse  each  other  and  contradict  each  other.  I 
hardly  dare  to  say  it,  but  their  worldliness,  or  what 
seemed  to  me  their  worldliness,  was  near  destroying 
my  faith  again.  It  is  only  here  that  I  can  believe 
as  I  want  to  believe.  Here  everyone  is  humble, 
here  everyone  has  renounced  the  lust  of  the  flesh; 
so  I  know  that  you  all  believe,  for  your  lives  prove 
it.'' 

"  We  prayed,  and  our  prayer  was  answered. 
Prayer  is  the  only  real  power  in  the  world,  my  dear 
Teresa,  and  you  have  had  proof  of  the  efficacy  of 
our  prayers;  and  if  anyone  here  needed  proof  of 
the  efficacy  of  prayer  she  would  find  it  in  you — how 
you  came  here,  how  you  were  brought  here,  is  surely 
one  of  the  most  wonderful  things  in  the  world,  and 
yet  one  of  the  most  natural,  if  one  thinks  of  it." 

The  Prioress  got  up  from  her  chair,  and  Evelyn 
followed  her  to  the  novitiate,  where  the  novices  were 
making  the  dress  that  Evelyn  was  to  wear  when  she 
received  the  white  veil. 

"  You  see,  Teresa,  we  spare  no  expense  or  trouble 
on  your  dress,"  said  the  Prioress. 


220  SISTEK    TERESA 

"  Oh,  it's  no  trouble,  dear  Mother ;"  and  Sister 
Angela  rose  from  her  chair  and  turned  the  dress 
right  side  out  and  shook  it,  so  that  Evelyn  might 
admire  the  handsome  folds  into  which  the  silk  fell. 

"  And  see,  here  is  the  wreath,"  said  Sister  Je- 
rome, picking  up  a  wreath  of  orange  blossom  from 
a  chair. 

"  And  what  do  you  think  of  your  veil.  Sister 
Teresa?  Sister  Rufina  did  this  feather-stitch; 
hasn't  she  done  it  beautifully  ?" 

Evelyn  examined  the  veil,  and  her  interest  was 
sincere  in  it,  for  she  believed  that  the  ritual  and 
its  symbolic  garments  were  necessary  to  complete 
the  inward  conviction  that  she  was  liberated  from 
the  world. 

"  And  Sister  Rufina  is  making  your  wedding- 
cake.  Mother  Philippa  has  told  her  to  put  in  as 
many  raisins  and  currants  as  she  pleases;  yours 
will  be  the  richest  cake  we  have  ever  had  in  the  con- 
vent." Sister  Angela  spoke  very  demurely,  for  she 
was  thinking  of  the  portion  of  the  cake  that  would 
come  to  her,  and  there  was  a  little  gluttony  in  her 
voice  as  she  spoke  of  the  almond  paste  it  would  have 
upon  it. 

"  It  is  indeed  a  pity,"  said  Sister  Jerome,  "  that 
Sister  Teresa's  clothing  takes  place  so  early  in  the 
year." 

"  How  so.  Sister  Jerome  ?"  Evelyn  asked  incau- 
tiously. 

"  Because  if  it  had  been  a  little  later,  or  if  Mon- 


SISTER    TERESA  221 

signer  had  not  been  delayed  in  Rome — I  only 
thought,"  she  added,  stopping  short,  "  that  you 
would  like  Monsignor  to  give  you  the  white  veil — 
it  would  be  nicer  for  you,  or  if  the  bishop  gave  it," 
she  added,  "  or  Father  Ambrose.  I  am  sure  Sister 
Veronica  never  would  have  been  a  nun  at  all  if 
Father  Ambrose  had  not  professed  her.  Father 
Daly  is  such  a  little  frump." 

"  That  will  do,  children.  I  cannot  really  allow 
our  chaplain  to  be  spoken  of  in  that  manner." 

The  Prioress  and  Evelyn  descended  the  novitiate 
stairs  together,  and  the  Prioress  said, — 

"  I  think,  dear  Teresa,  your  retreat  had  better 
begin  to-morrow." 


XXIV 

The  silence  of  the  convent  had  once  seemed  to 
her  a  hardship,  and  now  these  extra  hours  of  silence 
seemed  to  her  no  hardship  at  all,  and  she  passed  a 
whole  week  without  speaking,  and  in  special  hu- 
mility of  the  spirit.  She  accepted  all  Mother 
Hilda's  instruction  as  a  patient  accepts  her  medi- 
cines. She  looked  forward  to  the  gown,  the  veil, 
the  wreath  and  the  ceremony  as  the  patient  looks 
forward  to  the  doctor's  ordinances,  and  she  was 
anxious  to  exceed  the  rule,  to  do  a  little  more  than 
it  required  of  her.  The  stage  had  enabled  her  to 
escape  from  herself,  her  vows  were  a  more  serious 
escapement,  and  on  the  day  of  her  clothing  she  was 
the  most  infantile  nun  in  the  convent.  She  joined 
in  all  the  babble  and  laughter,  and  her  appreciation 
of  the  wedding-cake  exceeded  Sister  Agatha's. 
But  she  over  did  it  a  little,  and  in  the  midst  of  her 
gaiety  her  mood  changed,  and  she  asked  if  she 
might  go  into  the  garden.  Sister  Jerome  was  par- 
ticularly noisy  that  afternoon,  her  unceasing  hu- 
mour had  begun  to  jar,  and  Evelyn  felt  she  must 
get  away  from  it. 

It  was  a  relief  to  watch  the  gardener. 
He  was  mowing  between  the  flower-beds,  and  the 
222 


SISTER    TERESA  223 

thick  young  grass  that  had  just  grown  up  after  the 
winter  lay  along  the  lawn  in  irregular  lines;  and 
she  noticed  that  the  summer  had  not  yet  covered  the 
earth,  and  that  brown  patches  showed  among  grey- 
green  tulip  leaves,  the  tall  May  tulips  which  the 
Dutchmen  used  to  paint.  She  looked  towards  the 
orchard,  where  the  white  pear  blossom  was  shedding, 
and  the  apple  blossom  was  beginning  to  show  in 
tight  pink  knots  amid  brown  boughs. 

The  convent  pets  had  increased,  and  Evelyn  in 
her  walk  round  the  garden  met  three  goslings  stray- 
ing under  the  flowering  laburnums.  She  returned 
them  to  their  mother  in  the  orchard,  and  a  little 
farther  on  she  came  upon  the  cat  playing  with  the 
long-lost  tortoise.  He  had  found  the  tortoise  among 
the  potato  ridges,  and,  sitting  in  front  of  it,  tapped 
the  black  head  whenever  it  appeared  beyond  the 
shell.  And  holding  the  great  grey  tom  cat  by  his 
front  paws  she  decided  to  carry  him  to  the  other 
end  of  the  garden,  to  where  sparrows  were  pecking 
up  the  sweet  peas.  And  then  she  wandered  in  St. 
Peter's  Walk,  watching  the  young  leaves  swinging. 

The  mystery  of  the  spring  seemed  afloat  in  the 
misty  distances,  and  standing  on  the  terrace,  her 
eyes  fixed  on  the  wooded  horizon,  she  thought  of  the 
Birmingham  girl  whose  renunciation  of  the  world 
had  been  much  more  complete  than  hers  had  been 
that  morning.  For  the  order  of  the  Carmelites  was 
more  severe  than  that  of  the  Passionists.  She  re- 
membered the  lilacs  in  the  courtyard,  and  the  smell 


224  SISTEK    TEKESA 

of  the  wax  inside  the  church,  and  the  quavering 
voices  of  the  nuns,  and  the  priest's  intoning  of  the 
Yeni  Creator.  She  did  not  linger  over  these  external 
appearances — she  was  more  concerned  with  her  per- 
sonal impression.  Three  years  ago  the  ceremony 
had  seemed  to  her  like  a  gross  mediasval  supersti- 
tion. She  remembered  how  it  had  frightened  her. 
That  a  girl  should  choose  to  forego  lover,  husband, 
children,  riches,  fame — everything!  All  these 
things  might  have  been  hers,  but  she  had  put  them 
away,  knowing  them  to  be  vain  things. 

Evelyn  remembered  how  even  then  she  had  be- 
gun to  perceive  the  unreality  of  the  things  which  the 
world  calls  real  things.  Yet  on  the  day  of  the 
girl's  clothing  it  had  seemed  to  her  that  for  a  time 
one  should  be  the  dupe  of  that  illusion  which  the 
world  calls  reality.  It  had  seemed  to  her  that  the 
girl  should  have  tasted  of  the  cup  before  she  had 
refused  it.  She  could  have  sympathised  with  a 
renunciation,  but  she  could  not  then  sympathise 
with  a  refusal.  She  could  not  admit  that  anyone 
should  know  from  the  beginning  that  the  world  was 
a  vain  thing;  such  precocity;  and  conflicted  with 
her  prejudice.  She  remembered  how  she  had  been 
taken  with  a  sudden  impulse  to  ask  this  girl  what 
reason  had  compelled  her  to  refuse  life,  and  how  she 
had  followed  Merat  through  a  side  door  and  down 
a  passage.  She  had  come  to  a  room  divided  by  a 
grating,  and  behind  the  grating  she  had  seen  the 
girl,  her  face  suffused  with  tears,  and  she  had  not 


SISTER    TERESA  225 

been  able  to  ask  what  she  had  come  to  ask.  The 
conviction  that  the  girl  could  not  answer  her  had 
stayed  the  question  on  her  lips.  The  mere  sight  of 
the  girl  had  told  her  that  she  had  been  led  by  a  sub- 
lime instinct  beside  which  the  wisdom  of  all  the 
philosophers  was  very  little.  .  .  . 

That  girl  had  known  the  truth  from  the  begin- 
ning, and  had  confirmed  her  conviction  by  an  act, 
and  Evelyn  remembered  that  even  at  that  time  her 
own  feet  were  on  the  way  that  had  led  her  to  the  con- 
vent. But  how  incredulous  she  would  have  looked 
if  anyone  had  told  her  then  that  in  a  little  while  she 
would  stand  a  nun  on  the  terrace  of  the  Wimbledon 
convent. 

There  was  no  doubt  that  she  was  greatly  changed, 
and  yet  it  was  the  strange  discomfort  of  her  clothes 
that  reminded  her  she  was  a  nun — the  voluminous 
trailing  habit  with  its  wide,  hanging  sleeves,  and, 
smiling,  she  thought  that  this  stiff,  white  head-dress 
made  her  feel  more  like  a  nun  than  her  vows. 

She  stood,  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  horizon.  It  had 
changed  from  blue  to  violet,  the  evening  was  grow- 
ing more  beautiful.  Evelyn  had  begun  to  feel  that 
she  would  stand  looking  at  it  for  ever,  and  it  was 
at  that  moment  that  the  rosy-cheeked  porteress  came 
tripping  down  the  terrace  to  tell  her  that  a  lady 
had  called  to  see  her. 

"  The  lady  is  in  the  parlour.  Mother  Hilda  is 
with  her,  and  she  has  sent  me  for  you." 

It  was  Louise  who  had  called  to  see  her,  but  when 

15 


226  SISTER    TERESA 

Evelyn  entered  the  parlour  Mother  Hilda  was  not 
there,  and  she  was  not  certain  if  she  should  remain. 

"  I  can  see  you  are  doubtful  whether  you  should 
stay  with  me,  Evelyn ;  how  is  it  that  you  can  accept 
such  obedience?  And  that  ridiculous  gown,  those 
sleeves,  and  that  head-dress!  I  hear  you  were 
Clothed  to-day.  You  have  had  your  hair  cut  off. 
But  is  this  the  Evelyn,  the  Evelyn  with  whom  I 
used  to  sing  ?" 

"  Yes,  dear  Louise,  it  is  I ;  and  it  is  kind  in  you 
to  come  here.  But  how  did  you  find  me  out  ?  Let 
me  know  before  Mother  Hilda  returns.  We  shall 
not  be  able  to  talk  freely  before  her.  This  oppor- 
tunity is  quite  exceptional." 

"  But,  Evelyn,  your  govm  distracts  me.  Well,  it 
was  accident  that  gave  me  your  address.  Owen 
Asher  did  not  know  it." 

"  Louise,  you  must  not  talk  to  me  of  him. 
Though  I  should  like  to  know  he  is  well.  Nor  must 
you  talk  to  me  of  the  stage.    All  that  is  past." 

"  Then  what  shall  we  talk  about  ?" 

"  Tell  me  how  you  found  me  out." 

"  You  look  so  serious  that  I  shall  find  it  hard  to 
tell  you  anything.  ...  I  was  singing  Schubert's 
'  Ave  Maria,'  and  a  man  told  me  he  had  heard  a 
nun  at  Wimbledon  sing  it  more  beautifully  than 
anyone — myself,  of  course,  excepted.  Something 
told  me  it  was  you,  and  the  moment  I  heard  you  I 
knew." 

"  I  have  not  sung  it  for  some  weeks." 


SISTER    TERESA  227 

"  It  is  about  three  weeks  ago,  but  I  was  with  a 
friend  and  could  not  call  that  daj,  and  the  following 
day  I  went  to  Paris.  I  have  just  returned.  This 
is  the  first  free  day  I  had." 

"  It  is  very  good  of  you  to  come,  Louise.  I  am 
glad  you  have  not  forgotten  me." 

"  But  tell  me — I  want  you  to  tell  me  how  long 
this  fancy — this  whim  of  yours — is  going  to  last." 

"  You  surely  cannot  think  that  I  am  not  serious. 
I  assure  you  that  living  in  a  convent  is  no  joke  at 
all." 

"  Then  you  are  not  happy  ?" 

"  On  the  contrary,  I  am  happy,  and  I  grow  hap- 
pier every  day.  When  I  said  that  to  live  in  a  con- 
vent was  not  a  joke  I  meant  that  it  would  be  hor- 
rible if  one  were  not  sure  of  one's  vocation." 

"  But  you  will  tell  me,  Evelyn,  what  reason  led 
you  here,  what  impulse." 

"  Ah,  that  is  what  everyone  wants  to  know.  The 
question  you  have  asked  me  is  the  question  everyone 
wishes  to  put  to  a  nun.  I  remember  longing  to  ask 
a  Carmelite  nun  why  she  had  refused  the  world. 
She  was  only  eighteen  or  twenty." 

"  And  what  answer  did  she  give  you  ?" 

"  I  asked  her  nothing ;  the  reason  was  plain  upon 
her  face.  But  I  will  tell  you  why  I  came  here.  I 
came  here  in  quest  of  happiness.  The  same  reason 
that  took  me  to  the  stage  took  me  here.  The  happi- 
ness I  seek  is  not  the  happiness  I  sought  in  art  and 
lovers.    But  I  came  here  in  quest  of  happiness." 


228  SISTER    TERESA 

'*  And  you  have  found  it  ?" 

"""  Xuns  are  far  happier  than  actresses.  They 
seem  to  me  to  be  perfectly  happy,  and  they  have 
surrendered  everything." 

"  And  are  you  happy  ?'' 

"  I  am  happier  than  I  used  to  be.  But  I  have 
not  yet  taken  the  vows  which  separate  me  irrevo- 
cably from  the  things  which  make  us  unhappy;  I 
am  not  so  happy  as  the  nuns  who  have  been  here  for 
twenty  years,  but  I  am  sure  I  am  happier  than  you 
are,  Louise." 

"  I  am  not  happy  at  all." 

The  conversation  paused  and  then  Evelyn  said, 
"  The  moment  we  come  to  see  that  life  is  something 
more  than  a  set  of  adventures  (that  is  how  I  used 
to  look  upon  my  life),  the  moment  we  come  to  see 
that  life  has  a  spiritual  meaning,  we  find  ourselves 
propelled  to  alter  our  lives." 

"  One  can  alter  one's  life  without  shutting  oneself 
up  in  a  nunnery  ?" 

*^  We  must  go  where  we  feel  we  shall  find 
health.  ...  A  person  suffering  from  a  contagious 
disease  would  leave  the  infected  place  as  soon  as  he 
was  cured." 

''  Perhaps  your  convalescent  might  think  it  his 
duty  to  remain  to  tend  the  sick." 

^'  Ah,  which  is  the  better,  the  active  or  the  contem- 
plative order,  which  is  it  better,  to  pray  or  to  act  ?" 

"  My  dear  Evelyn,  you  were  always  a  little  mad. 
I  know  all  about  convents  and  nuns.    I  was  brought 


SISTER    TERESA  229 

up  in  a  convent,  and  I,  too^  was  tempted  by  the  re- 
ligious life,  but  I  did  not  give  way  to  the  temptation. 
But  what  are  you  striving  after,  Evelyn  ?  You  can 
never  know  for  certain  that  there  is  a  future  life.'' 
"  Even  so.  It  interests  me  more  to  pursue  a 
moral  idea  than  to  sing  difficult  music  for  applause 
and  gain.  The  inward  satisfaction  one  gets  by 
living  for  an  idea  is  infinitely  greater  than  one  gets 
by  the  pursuit  of  artistic  or  other  pleasure.  It  is 
delicious  to  feel  that  one  is  not  prompted  by  selfish 
motives.  I  assure  you  I  would  sing  the  ugliest 
music  ever  written  to  get  money  to  pay  the  convent's 
debts.  To  pay  off  these  debts  is  the  object  of  my 
life." 

"  You  think  that  it  is  a  sufilcient  object  ?" 
"  It  is  sufficient  for  me.     London  had  come  to 
seem  like  a  stuffy  omnibus.     Moreover,  I  could  not 
breathe  in  London." 


XXV 

The  door  opened  and  Mother  Hilda  came  in,  and, 
after  a  few  words,  Louise  asked  if  they  might  go 
into  the  garden.  Mother  Hilda  assented  readily, 
and,  as  they  walked  down  the  terrace,  they  stopped 
to  listen  to  the  nuns  who  were  singing  in  the  library. 
Louise  spoke  of  a  school,  of  the  advantages  of  the 
situation. 

"  And  what  an  inducement,'^  she  said,  "  for 
mothers  to  send  their  children  to  you.  Where  could 
girls  learn  singing  as  they  could  here  ?" 

Mother  Hilda  did  not  perceive  that  Louise's  re- 
mark was  intended  to  be  satirical,  and  she  explained 
that  they  could  not  have  a  school  without  altering 
the  rule  of  the  order.  Louise  regretted  that  this  was 
so,  and  spoke  of  the  convent  where  she  had  been  edu- 
cated. Mother  Hilda  knew  the  convent  and  several 
of  the  nuns,  and  they  were  soon  talking  of  their 
friends,  of  their  tempers,  their  ailments  and  their 
amiabilities.  Sister  So-and-So  was  dead.  Mother 
So-and-So  was  getting  very  old.  Evelyn  knew  none 
of  them,  and  her  thoughts  turned  to  Louise,  and  the 
annoyance  this  visit  caused  her  seemed  out  of  pro- 
portion. She  had  wished  this  day  to  pass  in  medi- 
tation, and  her  meditations  had  been  interrupted 
for  no  good  reason,  to  argue  about  matters  which 
230 


SISTER    TERESA  281 

this  day  had  settled  for  ever.  She  did  not  wish  to 
think  unkindly  of  Louise,  but  she  hoped  she  would 
not  come  to  see  her  again.  Visits  are  only  agreeable 
when  they  are  prompted  by  the  desire  for  mutual 
benefit  and  when  they  are  an  exchange  of  mutual 
ideas.  What  benefit  had  come  to  her  or  to  Louise 
by  this  visit  ?  They  had  not  a  thought  in  common, 
and  once  all  their  thoughts  had  been  common.  She 
had  lived  with  this  woman,  she  had  sung  with  her, 
they  had  travelled  together,  and  now  Louise  was 
merely  a  faded  recollection,  a  something  that  had 
once  been. 

By  this  time  Mother  Hilde  and  Louise  had  ex- 
hausted their  memories  of  the  French  convent,  and 
the  conversation  had  begun  to  flag,  and  Evelyn  won- 
dered what  would  happen  next.  At  that  moment 
the  porteress  appeared — she  had  come  to  say  that 
the  Prioress  would  be  glad  to  speak  with  Mother 
Hilda.  Evelyn  and  Louise  walked  on,  and  they 
spoke  of  Mother  Hilda,  without  feeling  any  interest 
in  what  they  were  saying,  until  they  came  to  the 
fish-ponds ;  then  to  keep  the  conversation  from  fall- 
ing Evelyn  had  to  tell  Louise  how  tame  the  fish 
were.  Louise  began  to  sing  the  song  of  the  Rhine 
Maidens.  Evelyn  joined  her  for  a  few  bars  and 
then  Louise  asked  her  to  throw  away  the  ring.'' 

"  What  ring,  dear  V 

"  The  ring  that  was  put  on  your  finger  to- 
day." 

"  ^o  ring  was  put  on  my  finger.    I  shall  not  get 


232  SISTEK    TEKESA 

the  ring  till  I  am  professed.  That  will  be  in  a  year 
from  now." 

"  Evelyn,  let  me  implore  you." 

"  But,  my  dear  Louise,  if  I  am  happier  here  than 
I  was  in  the  world  I  had  better  remain  here." 

"  The  nuns  only  want  your  money.  When  you 
have  given  them  your  money  you  will  be  unhappy." 

"  These  women  are  my  dearest  friends.  It  is 
painful  to  me  to  hear  them  spoken  of  in  this  way." 

A  slight  mist  was  rising,  a  thin  moon  floated  like 
a  pale  feather  in  the  sky,  and  the  convent  roofs  were 
clear  in  the  luminous  air.  A  nun  had  come  with 
a  message  to  Evelyn,  and  she  said, — 

"  Now  I  must  say  good-bye." 

"  Shall  I  not  see  you  again,  Evelyn  ?  Have  we 
nothing  in  common  any  more?  Have  we  faded 
from  each  other?  I  cannot  tell  you  how  inde- 
scribably sad  it  seems  to  me." 

"  Only  because  you  put  all  your  faith  into  the 
things  of  this  world,  which  are  passing.  But  I  shall 
pray  for  you,  Louise ;  I  shall  always  remember  you 
in  my  prayers." 

"  Only  in  your  prayers,  Evelyn  ?" 

'^  My  name  is  no  longer  Evelyn.  I  am  Sister 
Teresa." 


XXVI 

One  day,  in  the  last  month  of  Evelyn's  novice- 
ship,  Sister  Mary  John  sat  at  the  harmonium,  her 
eyes  fixed,  following  Evelyn's  voice  like  one  in  a 
dream.  Evelyn  was  singing  Stradella's  "  Chanson 
d'Eglise,"  and  when  she  had  finished  the  nun  rose 
from  her  seat,  and,  clasping  her  friend's  hand,  she 
thanked  her  for  her  singing  with  effusion  and  with 
tears. 

For  some  time  past  their  eyes  lighted  up  when 
they  met  in  the  passages,  and  it  was  delicious  to 
think  for  a  moment  how  closely  they  were  de- 
pendent upon  each  other.  Once  Evelyn  had  no- 
ticed that  the  Sister  seemed  to  avoid  her ;  it  might 
be  only  a  seeming,  she  thought,  for  a  few  days  after 
Sister  Mary  John  had  hurried  to  meet  her.  On 
another  occasion  she  had  noticed  a  flutter  as  it 
were  in  the  nun's  eyes  and  a  change  of  colour  in  her 
cheeks,  and  then  an  appealing  look  in  her  eyes,  like 
one  whose  heart  misgives  her.  Evelyn  knew  the 
nature  of  her  own  feelings,  but  she  feared  that  Sis- 
ter Mary  John  would  one  day  suspect  that  hers  was 
neither  permissible  nor  valid ;  and  then,  whatever 
it  cost  her,  she  would  put  it  aside;  she  would  not 
allow  anything  to  come  between  her  and  her  love  of 
God.  Evelyn  knew  that  this  nun  would  not  hesitate 
to  leave  the  convent  if  she  felt  her  vocation  to  be 

233 


234  SISTEE    TEKESA 

endangered  by  remaining.  The  possibility  of  such 
a  leave-taking  frightened  her,  and  she  resolved  she 
would  avoid  all  casual  conversation  for  the  future. 
But  it  was  difficult  to  do  this;  their  musical  occu- 
pation left  them  constantly  together,  and  Evelyn's 
coldness  increased  the  nun's  desire  for  her  affection. 

This  friendship,  which  had  begun  in  the  music, 
caught  root  in  the  Latin  language,  in  the  Holy  Of- 
fice. It  was  from  Mother  Hilda  that  Evelyn  had 
learnt  the  groundwork  of  the  Office,  but  it  was  from 
Sister  Mary  John  that  she  had  learned  the  great 
place  the  Office  should  take  in  the  life  of  a  nun. 
The  nun  had  caught  Evelyn's  eyes  fixed  upon  her 
as  she  scolded  against  those  who  are  content  with 
a  mere  recital  of  the  words  and  shrink  from  the 
labour  of  learning  to  appreciate  the  wonderful  ap- 
propriateness, acquired  not  in  a  single  composition, 
but  built  up  bit  by  bit  in  the  centuries  like  some 
great  epic.  She  had  guessed  that  Evelyn  was  ready 
and  willing  for  further  instruction. 

And  they  had  read  the  Breviary  together,  four 
great  volumes,  one  for  every  season  of  the  year; 
the  language  was  in  itself  a  beguilement,  and  be- 
hind the  language  there  was  the  rich,  mysterious 
tradition  of  the  Church.  Sister  Mary  John  had 
taught  her  Latin,  and  Evelyn  had  learnt  how  these 
books  of  ritual  and  observances  can  satisfy  the  mind 
more  than  any  secular  literature.  There  was  always 
something  in  the  Office  for  them  to  talk  about,  some- 
thing new  amid  much  that  remained  the  same,  and 


SISTER    TERESA  2ZS 

the  communication  of  her  pleasure  at  the  reap- 
pearance of  a  favourite  hymn  was  always  something 
to  look  forward  to. 

In  this  personal  intimacy,  so  rare  in  a  convent, 
but  which  peculiar  circumstances  had  allowed  to 
them,  she  had  become  aware  of  Sister  Mary  John^s 
extraordinary  passion  for  God.  The  nun  had  tried 
to  hide  it  from  her,  but  she  had  discovered  it,  and 
it  was  during  this  time  that  Evelyn  had  made  her 
first  real  advance  in  piety.  It  was  from  the  ex- 
ample of  Sister  Mary  John  that  she  had  learned 
how  we  may  think  of  God  even  to  forgetfulness  of 
our  own  identity,  living  while  on  earth,  as  it  were, 
in  the  very  atmosphere  of  his  bosom.  To  watch  her 
friend  in  prayer  was  in  itself  an  instigation  to 
prayer;  and  Sister  Mary  John  had  begun  to  think 
she  had  discovered  a  genius  in  Evelyn,  which,  if 
cultivated,  would  give  a  new  visionary  to  the 
Church.  She  believed  that  Evelyn  would  attain  an 
extraordinary  sanctity,  that  she  would  acquire  mar- 
vellous power,  and  all  her  prayers  were  directed  to 
this  end.  She  even  neglected  the  prayers  she  should 
say  to  release  her  own  soul  from  purgatory,  think- 
ing that  a  few  more  years  would  matter  little  for  so 
great  an  end.  To  excite  Evelyn's  enthusiasm  she 
even  did  violence  to  her  own  humility,  speaking  of 
her  own  visions  and  ecstasies — poor  though  they 
were  and  inferior  to  those  which  would  be  given  to 
Evelyn  if  Evelyn  would  devote  herself  wholly  to 
God. 


236  SISTER    TERESA 

Sister  Mary  John  was  the  only  nun  in  the  Wim- 
bledon convent  who  reminded  Evelyn  of  the  nuns 
she  had  read  of  in  the  lives  of  the  saints.  Ecsta- 
sies, she  felt  sure,  were  not  Mother  Philippa's 
religious  lot,  nor  Veronica's.  Veronica  was  far  too 
trim  and  methodical  for  a  vision.  But  certain  as 
she  was  of  the  somewhat  lowly  spirituality  of  the 
other  nuns,  she  was  sure  that  Sister  Mary  John  suc- 
ceeded in  living  beyond  herself.  That  was  her  own 
phrase ;  her  admonition  was  always  that  we  should 
strive  to  live  a  little  beyond  ourselves.  When  the 
sensible  realities  faded,  she  said  the  Word  of  God 
became  clearer,  and  this  evacuation  of  sense  had 
often  taken  her  when  she  sat  alone  playing  the 
organ  in  the  church ;  and  after  these  transports  the 
return  to  the  physical  world  was  slow  and  painful. 

"  I  have  written  down  some  of  my  visions  in  a 
book;  I  have  never  shown  them  to  anyone,  but  I 
will  show  them  to  you." 

Beguiled  by  the  immediate  moment,  and  believing 
it  w^ould  be  to  her  friend's  advantage  to  read  her 
manuscript,  she  sought  for  it  among  the  music,  ex- 
plaining that  she  had  written  it  as  if  it  were  a 
translation  from  some  mediaeval  French  writer. 

^^  Do  not  read  it  now ;    take  it  to  the  library." 

Evelyn  took  it  to  the  library  at  once,  and  she  read 
how  the  Sister  had  been  met  suddenly  in  the  midst 
of  a  great  darkness  by  a  shining  light  which  un- 
folded and  revealed  to  her  the  Divine  Bridegroom, 
who  took  her  in  His  arms,  saying  that  He  loved  her. 


SISTER    TERESA  237 

The  anecdote  was  told  so  simply  that  it  convinced, 
and  Evelyn  paused  in  her  reading  to  think  that 
whoever  attains  to  any  knowledge  of  the  unseen 
world  does  so  by  foregoing  some  part  of  her  knowl- 
edge of  the  natural  world.  Whoever  prays  sees  God 
in  a  greater  or  less  degree,  and  visions  are  but  the 
revelations  of  the  spiritual  world  about  us.  "■  Yes," 
she  said,  speaking  to  herself,  "  the  spiritual  world 
is  revealed  to  us  by  prayer,  just  as  the  material 
world  is  discovered  to  us  according  to  the  measure 
of  our  senses." 

She  read  that  while  looking  at  a  picture  of  St. 
Francis,  whom  Christ  had  taken  to  His  bosom.  Sis- 
ter Mary  John  had  heard  a  voice  saying,  "  I  will 
gather  thee,  oh,  my  bride,  to  my  bosom  in  a  far 
warmer  embrace,  and  our  communion  shall  be  so 
perfect  that  it  may  not  be  seen."  Evelyn  won- 
dered if  the  nun  had  had  any  scruples  regarding  her 
visions,  and,  turning  the  pages  over,  she  discovered 
that  once  a  scruple  had  entered  her  heart. 

One  night  she  had  been  awakened,  she  knew  not 
how  or  why,  it  seemed  as  if  she  had  been  awakened 
to  see  a  soft  light  shining  in  the  corner  of  the  room, 
which  was  quite  dark.  She  lay  with  her  feet  and 
hands  folded,  watching  the  light  which  grew  wider 
until  it  descended  upon  her;  and  when  she  awoke 
again  she  was  lying  on  her  left  side,  and  an  angel 
was  beside  her.  She  could  just  see  him  in  the  faint 
and  tremulous  light  which  his  flesh  emitted,  and  he 
folded  her  in  his  arms,  and  his  white  wings  closed 


238  SISTER    TERESA 

about  her,  and  it  seemed  to  her  that  she  had  never 
seen  anything  so  beautiful  as  his  flesh.  He  folded 
her  closely  in  his  arms,  and  told  her  how  he  loved 
her,  and  vs^atched  for  her,  and  he  held  her  so  closely 
that  the  two  seemed  to  become  one.  Then  her  flesh 
became  beautiful  and  luminous  like  his,  and  she 
seemed  to  have  a  feeling  of  love  and  tenderness  for 
it.  She  saw  his  face  quite  clearly;  she  seemed  to 
have  seen  it  in  some  picture.  "  But  oh,  how  much' 
more  beautiful  is  the  real  face,''  she  thought;  and 
then  she  hoped  he  would  kiss  her;  but  he  did  not 
kiss  her,  they  only  seemed  to  become  one — one  per- 
fect soul  united  for  ever  and  ever.  He  said  that 
she  was  the  counterpart  he  had  been  waiting  for  in 
heaven,  and  she  fell  asleep  in  his  arms — a  beautiful 
sleep,  deep  and  refreshing  as  the  sea,  and  when  she 
awoke  he  had  left  her. 

Sister  Mary  John  confessed  that  she  was  unable 
to  explain  the  words,  ^^  I  am  your  counterpart  and 
await  you  in  heaven."  For  it  was  Christ  who 
awaited  her  in  heaven,  and  for  this  reason  she 
prayed,  if  it  were  God's  holy  will,  that  the  angel 
might  not  visit  her  again. 

The  next  day  at  Mass  she  had  feared  she  would 
never  gather  strength  to  go  to  the  sacred  table.  But 
suddenly  she  had  heard  a  voice  saying,  "  Come, 
come,  my  beloved  spouse,  I  wait  for  thee;  I  will 
descend  into  thee  and  take  my  joy  in  thee."  Eve- 
lyn laid  down  the  book.  This  passionate  materiali- 
sation of  God's  love  she  felt  she  could  never  feel. 


SISTER    TERESA  239 

She  did  not  see  the  wounds,  nor  could  she  count  the 
nails,  nor  did  her  soul  ever  escape  into  the  wound 
in  the  side  and  find  a  divine  beverage  in  the  flowing 
blood.  The  Christ  to  whom  her  thoughts  went  out 
was  neither  the  victim  nor  the  bridegroom,  but  the 
young  man  who  had  appeared  in  Galilee,  preaching 
a  doctrine  which  could  alone  save  men  from  them- 
selves. It  was  not  God,  but  it  was  the  wonder  of 
the  moral  law  that  delighted  her,  and  her  heart  re- 
mained dry,  if  it  did  not  rebel  against  a  physical 
love  and  perception  of  God. 

She  resolved  to  say  very  little  when  she  gave  back 
the  manuscript ;  but  something  had  to  be  said,  and 
Evelyn  confessed  her  opinions.  But  the  Sister  did 
not  understand  her  scruples,  and  she  charged  Eve- 
lyn^s  love  of  God  with  being  cold. 

"  We  are  the  brides  of  Christ ;  St.  Teresa  has 
spoken  quite  plainly  on  that  point.  And  St.  John 
of  the  Cross  speaks  of  the  union  of  God  in  much  the 
same  way,  and  so  did  all  the  saints.  Oh,  Sister, 
your  scruples  are  morbid;  we  should  surely  set  no 
measure  to  our  love  of  God.  There  is  no  lover  like 
God.  He  is  always  by  you  and  you  can  turn  to  Him 
at  any  moment.  .  .  .  God  wishes  us  to  keep  all 
our  love  for  Him.'^ 

The  Sister's  innocent  candour  made  her  feel 
ashamed,  and  she  resolved  never  to  suspect  Sister 
Mary's  love  of  God  again.  She  even  denied  to  her- 
self that  she  had  ever  suspected  it,  and  accused  her 
sinful  imagination.     But  in  the  secret  life  of  her 


240  SISTEK    TERESA 

soul  this  intimate  and  almost  sensual  love  of  God 
continued  to  perplex  her,  and  while  mistrusting  it 
she  half  desired  it,  asking  herself  if  faith  in  God 
were  possible  Avithout  passionate  love.  She  was 
aware  that  her  belief  in  God  was  more  a  moral  than 
a  sensible  conviction.  She  did  not  see  Christ  in 
the  Host  as  Sister  Mary  John  had  done,  and  she 
was  not  certain  whether  she  accepted  the  Host  as 
an  extraordinary  symbolic  interpretation  of  God's 
constant  descent  into  man,  of  the  union  of  the 
human  and  the  Divine  kind,  or  as  the  actual  body 
of  the  Creator  and  administrator  of  things.  If  her 
faith  on  this  essential  point  was  not  clear,  could  she 
live  in  a  convent  dedicated  to  perpetual  adoration  ? 
She  was  not  quite  certain  on  this  point,  and  while 
thinking  she  remembered  that  no  other  nun  but 
Sister  Mary  John  was  possessed  by  sufficient  faith 
to  allow  her  to  see  the  Divine  flesh  in  the  Host. 
Evel;yTi  reflected  that  if  she  were  to  leave  the  con- 
vent she  might  lose  her  faith.  She  could  conquer 
her  sinful  nature  only  among  those  whose  lives 
proved  to  her  that  they  held  the  world  to  be  worth- 
less. She  could  live  safe  from  sin  only  amid  a 
stream  of  petitions  going  up  daily  to  God  for  her 
safety.  Moreover,  her  belief  in  the  great  sacrament 
had  increased  since  she  had  come  back  from  Rome ; 
she  desired  faith,  an  ardent,  irrevocable,  sensible 
faith,  and  it  would  not  be  withheld  from  her  if  she 
prayed. 

By   a   special   dispensation  from   the   Reverend 


SISTER    TERESA  241 

Mother,  her  watch  before  the  sacrament  waa  in- 
creased from  half  an  hour  to  an  hour;  she  was 
therefore  put  on  an  equality  with  the  choir  nuns; 
and  kneeling  before  the  sacrament  she  thought  of 
God  as  intimately  as  she  dared,  excluding  all 
thought  of  the  young  Galilean  prophet  and  seer, 
allowing  herself  to  think  only  of  the  exquisite  doc- 
trine. She  did  not  wish  him  to  take  her  in  his  arms 
until  one  day  starting  suddenly  from  her  prayers 
she  asked  who  it  was  who  stood  before  her.  She 
seemed  to  see  Him  among  His  disciples,  sitting  at 
a  small  table  with  a  love-light  upon  His  face.  She 
scrutinised  the  face,  fearing  it  might  not  be  His. 
She  seemed  to  have  seen  it.  Presently  she  discov- 
ered Ulick;  and  tremblingly  she  remembered  the 
night  she  found  him  among  his  disciples.  So  she 
did  not  dare  to  think  of  Christ  any  longer;  and 
with  regret  and  tenderness,  and  yet  with  a  certain 
exaltation  of  the  spirit,  she  turned  to  the  Father, 
feo  the  original  essence  which  had  existed  before  the 
world  needed  a  redeemer.  She  lost  herself  for  a 
time  in  the  vast  spirit  which  hears  the  song  of 
nature  through  space  and  the  ages.  But  very  soon 
she  turned  to  the  young  Galilean  prophet  again, 
and  his  exquisite  doctrine  seemed  to  her  to  be  all 
that  man  needs  to  bring  to  perfect  fruition  the 
original  germ  of  immortality  implanted  in  him. 

The  Prioress  divined  her  trouble,  and  in  con- 
sideration of  it  allowed  her  to  communicate  every 
day,  and  henceforth  He  and  she  were  no  longer 

10 


242  SISTEK    TERESA 

divided.  Time  passed  so  quickly  in  thinking  of 
Him  that  only  a  few  moments  seemed  to  have  di- 
vided them,  and  she  awoke  at  dawn  conscious  that 
the  hour  of  the  Lord  was  nigh. 

On  Sundays  the  interval  with  God  was  longer, 
for  on  Sundays  the  choral  Mass  was  at  nine  for  the 
convenience  of  strangers,  and  the  nuns  received 
holy  communion  at  an  earlier  hour.  So  there  was 
a  long  interval  in  which  God  brooded  in  the  heart, 
in  which  she  walked  enfolded  in  the  Divine  atmos- 
phere. Then  the  spirit  and  flesh  ceased  to  battle, 
and  the  flesh  received  the  spirit  at  every  pore.  But 
unhappily  this  state  was  forfeit  to  any  slight  inter- 
ruption, and  the  object  of  all  the  nuns  was  to  make 
it  last  as  long  as  possible.  As  sacristan  Evelyn  was 
especially  liable  to  interruptions.  There  were  occa- 
sions when  the  server  did  not  attend,  and  it  befell 
Evelyn  to  recite  the  Confiteor  aloud  to  the  com- 
municants, to  make  the  final  responses  and  to  put 
out  the  candles  when  the  priest  left  the  altar;  and 
to  do  these  things  lost  her  the  joy  of  her  communion. 
She  was  dragged  out  of  the  unbounded  joys  and 
tenderness  which  had  gathered  in  her  heart. 

When  communion  was  carried  to  the  sick,  to  old 
Mother  Lawrence,  who  could  not  come  down  to  the 
chapel  at  so  early  an  hour,  Evelyn  and  another 
novice,  each  with  a  lighted  candle,  and  Sister 
Veronica,  with  a  little  bell  to  announce  the  coming 
of  the  Host,  preceded  the  priest  through  the  cloister 


SISTER    TERESA  243 

and  up  the  novitiate  stairs  to  the  infirmary.  The 
novices  knelt,  with  their  candles  in  their  hands,  at 
the  foot  of  the  bed,  and  the  aged  nun,  wasted  with 
age  and  abstinences  and  prayers,  waited,  tremulous 
with  expectation,  her  withered  hands  feebly  clasped, 
for  the  priest  to  lay  the  Host  upon  her  tongue. 
Once  she  was  very  ill  indeed ;  they  thought  she  was  . 
dying,  yet  in  her  mortal  weakness  she  strove  to  get 
on  her  knees  to  receive  the  sacrament,  and  Veronica, 
who  perceived  Sister  Lawrence's  intention,  passed 
her  hands  under  the  armpits,  lifting  the  old  nun, 
but  the  knees,  in  which  there  was  no  strength, 
slipped  away,  only  in  her  eyes  was  there  any  life — 
little  spots  which  awoke  out  of  their  dulness  at  the 
approach  of  the  sacrament.  The  gravity  of  the  mo- 
ment ennobled  their  different  sentiments — Father 
Daly's  faith  gross  and  obtuse,  Veronica's  faith  in- 
herent and  unsullied,  Evel3ai's  faith  passionate  and 
febrile.  The  two  women  were  in  tears,  and  their 
tears  only  made  them  more  beautiful,  and  their 
hearts  grew  happy  and  confident  as  they  looked  at 
the  old  nun  now  lying  peacefully  among  the  pillows, 
her  face  calm,  seemingly  lighted  up  with  a  vision. 
Of  what  happy  eternity,  Evelyn  thought  as  they 
left  the  bedside,  and  to  the  sound  of  the  tinkling 
bell  they  passed  into  the  chapel. 

Evelyn  loved  this  solemn  office;  it  gave  her  an 
intimate  sense  of  personal  service  on  Christ,  of 
walking  with  Him  on  earth,  and  never  from  repeti- 
tion did  the  sight  of  the  nuns  prostrated  in  their 


244  SISTER    TERESA 

stalls  as  the  sacrament  was  carried  back  to  the  altar 
become  trite  and  formal.  This  visible  manifesta- 
tion of  their  undaunted  renouncement  of  the  vulgar 
world  exalted  her,  and  new  courage  came  into  her 
heart.  She  noted  the  accumulated  heads  and  the 
joined  hands  clasped  convulsively,  with  perhaps  one 
face  lifted  for  a  moment  to  gaze  on  God  that  went 
by,  eager  for  some  deeper  pang  of  faith,  fearful 
and  yet  eager  to  approach  God.  What  are  all  the 
manifestations  of  personal  vanity,  she  thought, 
whether  in  art  or  war  or  statesmanship,  compared 
with  this  undaunted  self-effacement? 


XXVII 

She  was  writing  in  the  library,  and  Veronica  had 
just  opened  the  door,  and  though  her  back  was 
turned  to  the  door  she  seemed  to  know  it  was 
Veronica.  She  had  seen  very  little  of  her  lately, 
and  at  one  time  Evelyn,  Veronica,  and  Sister  Mary 
John  had  formed  a  little  group.  But  since  Evelyn 
had  become  attached  to  Sister  Mary  John,  Veronica 
had  withdrawn  herself  from  their  friendship,  and 
she  now  treated  them  to  little  disdainful  airs,  and 
she  did  not  at  once  answer  Evelyn,  who,  with  the 
prettiest  smile,  had  asked  her  whom  she  had  come 
in  search  of,  and  there  was  an  accent  of  concentrated 
dislike  in  her  voice  when  she  said  she  was  looking 
for  Sister  Mary  John. 

'^  I  heard  her  trampling  about  the  passage  just 
now;  she  is  on  her  way  here,  no  doubt,  and  won't 
keep  you  waiting  long." 

Evelyn  understood  the  word  "  trampling"  as  an 
allusion  to  the  hobnails  which  Sister  Mary  John 
wore  in  the  garden.  Veronica  had  lately  been  in- 
dulging in  bitter  remarks,  but  it  was  not  the  rude- 
ness of  the  present  remark  that  startled  Evelyn, 
but  Veronica's  manner.  She  did  not  give  Evelyn 
time  to  answer  her,  but  left  the  room  instantly,  and 

246 


246  SISTER    TERESA 

Evelyn  sat  nibbling  the  end  of  her  pen,  thinking  of 
what  had  happened.  The  little  jealousy  with  which 
she  had  credited  Veronica  did  not  seem  sufficient 
to  account  for  so  much  dislike,  and  she  was  forced 
towards  the  conclusion  that  Veronica's  dislike  of 
Sister  Mary  John  went  deeper  that  she  had  sus- 
pected. She  seemed  to  foresee  some  unpleasantness, 
and  she  sat  thinking  till  the  door  opened ;  she  hoped 
it  was  Veronica,  but  it  was  Sister  Mary  John. 

"  I  can't  think  what  is  the  matter  with  Veronica," 
she  said.  "  I  passed  her  in  the  passage  just  now, 
and  when  I  asked  her  if  she  had  seen  you,  she  said 
she  was  really  too  busy  to  speak  to  me,  and  a  mo- 
ment after  she  stopped  for  quite  a  long  while  to 
play  with  the  black  kitten  which  was  catching  flies 
in  the  window." 

Evelyn  stood  looking  at  the  nun,  thinking  of 
Veronica's  remarks  regarding  the  hobnails. 

"  Do  you  know  what  it  means  ?  Has  she  ever 
been  rude  to  you  ?" 

"  ^"0,  I  don't  think  she  has." 

But,  in  spite  of  herself,  she  began  awkwardly 
and  hesitatingly  to  tell  of  the  little  passage-of-arms 
between  herself  and  Veronica.  And  while  laughing 
at  Veronica's  jealousy,  she  stopped  suddenly  to  ask 
Sister  Mary  John  of  what  she  was  thinking. 

"  She  is  quite  right ;  it  is  we  who  are  in  the 
wrong.  We  have  been  disobeying  the  rule  this  long 
while." 

Evelyn  could  not  find  words  to  answer  her,  and 


SISTEK    TERESA  247 

an  ominous  silence  was  broken  by  the  smiling, 
ruddy-cheeked  porteress. 

"  Sister  Teresa,  Monsignor  has  come,  and  is  wait- 
ing to  see  you  in  the  parlour." 

The  colour  rose  to  her  cheeks,  and  so  excited  was 
she  at  the  thought  of  seeing  Monsignor  that  she  for- 
got Veronica's  rudeness,  and  very  nearly  forgot  the 
rupture  her  jealousy  might  cause  in  a  friendship 
which  had  been  the  principal  interest  in  her  life  for 
the  last  three  months ;  and  asking  the  Sister  if  she 
were  tidy,  she  hurried  away. 

As  the  door  closed  Sister  Mary  John  looked  round 
the  library,  and  a  little  sadness  appeared  in  her  face, 
and  many  things  became  clear  to  her  which,  until 
now,  she  had  only  half  understood.  It  was  Mon- 
signor who  had  converted  Evelyn — Evelyn  was 
therefore  attached  to  him  in  a  special  way;  but 
she  saw  that  part  of  Evelyn's  exultation  sprang 
from  her  instinctive  interest  in  men. 

"  A  man  always  comes  before  everyone  else, 
whether  she  is  on  the  stage  or  in  a  convent.  So 
she  goes  flying  to  him,  her  heart  in  both  hands, 
eager  to  confide  and  to  trust." 

Sister  Mary  John  walked  across  the  library, 
cruelly  perplexed,  for  it  had  suddenly  been  revealed 
to  her  that  to  bring  the  friendship  to  an  end  she 
must  leave  the  convent.  She  must  go  straight  to  the 
Prioress  and  tell  her  her  life  was  being  absorbed  in 
Evelyn,  and  beg  her  to  transfer  her  to  the  Mother 
House  in  France. 


248  SISTEK    TERESA^ 

Evelyn  was  now  talking  to  Monsignor  in  the 
parlour,  and  the  nun  could  see  him  listening,  en- 
couraging her  to  reveal  herself  by  an  attentive 
silence.  The  Prioress  had  sent  for  him,  so  that  he 
might  advise  her  regarding  Evelyn.  When  the  in- 
terview was  over  the  Prioress  would  go  to  the  par- 
lour to  hear  Monsignor's  opinion.  So  the  oppor- 
tuneness of  the  moment  for  her  to  confide  her  diffi- 
culty to  the  Prioress  was  evident  to  Sister  Mary 
John.  The  very  words  she  should  say  rose  up  in  her 
mind,  yet  she  hesitated,  and  she  stopped  in  the 
middle  of  the  room  to  ask  herself  why  she  hesitated. 
Questions  would  be  intolerable  and  shameful;  but 
the  Prioress  would  understand,  and  there  would  be 
few  questions. 

As  she  turned  from  the  door  a  voice  of  extraor- 
dinary sweetness  began  to  whisper  in  her,  and  she 
heard  that  for  the  sake  of  retaining  Evelyn  for  a 
few  short  years  she  would  lose  her  through  eternity. 
Were  it  not  better  to  see  her  in  heaven  ?  And  then 
a  strange  confusion  of  thought  happened  in  her. 
She  was  tempted  by  the  thought  that  even  in  heaven 
they  would  be  separated  by  their  love  of  God,  and 
she  remembered  with  horror  that  it  was  since  love 
of  Evelyn  had  begun  in  her  that  that  passionate  love 
of  Christ,  which  was  her  vocation,  and  without 
which  she  could  not  live  in  a  convent,  had  declined. 
She  must  choose  between  Christ  and  Evelyn.  Well, 
had  not  Evelyn  chosen  Monsignor  before  her  ?  She 
was   conscious   of   an   exceeding   wickedness ;     her 


SISTEK    TEKESA  249 

thoughts  faded,  and  she  became,  as  it  were,  vague 
pain  and  irresolution. 

But  suddenly  a  great  strength  was  vouchsafed 
to  her,  and  she  went  to  the  Prioress's  room. 

It  was  always  easy  to  talk  to  the  Prioress.  In 
their  confessions  the  nuns  spoke  as  if  they  were 
thinking  aloud,  and  Sister  Mary  John  explained 
how  this  friendship  had  come  to  be  a  disintegrating 
influence,  how  her  spiritual  character  had  fallen 
away  since  Evelyn  had  become  to  her  a  sensible 
pleasure.  She  had  known  this  a  long  while,  but 
had  stifled  the  voice  of  her  conscience.  Veronica's 
jealousy  had  brought  her,  as  it  were,  to  bay,  and  in 
a  flash  she  had  realised  how  deeply  she  was  involved 
in  the  entanglement  of  her  senses.  Speaking 
quickly,  she  said  that  Evelyn  had  absorbed  her  life, 
that  she  lived  immersed  in  her  as  she  should  live 
immersed  in  God. 

^^  My  dear  child,  you  exaggerate  unconsciously, 
for  enough  power  remains  in  you  to  break  silence 
and  to  put  the  matter  into  my  hands." 

"  I  could  do  nothing  else ;  I  had  to  come  to  tell 
you.  Mother.  The  truth  is  I  am  losing  my  voca- 
tion, and  to  regain  it  I  must  leave.  Dear  Mother, 
I  have  come  to  ask  you  to  transfer  me  to  our  house 
in  France." 

A  shadow  flitted  across  the  Prioress's  face,  and 
the  nun  anticipated  a  refusal. 

"  I  am  thinking,  my  dear  child,  of  what  is  best 
to  be  done."     And  while  the  Prioress  thought  of 


250  SISTEK    TERESA 

the  best  way  out  of  the  dilemma,  the  nun  regretted 
the  trouble  she  was  giving  this  old  woman.  There 
was  a  swish  of  wind  and  rain  on  the  window,  and 
the  trees  waved  disconsolately  in  the  wet  air,  and 
their  waving  carried  her  thoughts  out  to  sea,  where 
there  were  sails  and  rigging,  and  she  saw  herself 
on  her  way  to  France.  France  was  to  be  the  end 
of  her  life,  and  she  was  thinking  of  the  end  of  her 
days  in  the  Mother  House  at  Lyons,  where  she  knew 
no  one,  when  the  Prioress  said,  "  Mrs.  Cater  is 
going  to  France  next  month.  You  can  travel  with 
her." 

"  So  a  month  must  pass.  I  had  thought  of 
leaving  to-day  or  to-morrow,  but  I  see  that  that  is 
impossible.     A  month — how  shall  I  endure  it?" 

"  !N"o  one  will  know,"  the  Prioress  answered,  with 
a  little  vehemence ;  "  it  is  a  secret  between  us,  and 
I  forbid  you  to  tell  anyone  the  reason  of  your 
leaving." 

"  May  I  not  tell  Teresa  ?" 

^'  Teresa  will  be  professed  in  the  next  few  weeks, 
I  hope,  perhaps  next  week ;  she  has  reached  a  criti- 
cal moment  of  her  life,  and  her  mind  must  not  be 
disturbed.  The  raising  of  such  a  question  at  such 
a  moment  might  be  fatal  to  her  vocation." 

The  Prioress  rose  from  her  chair,  and  following 
Sister  Mary  John  to  the  door,  impressed  upon  her 
again  that  it  was  essential  that  no  one  should  ever 
know  why  she  had  left  the  convent. 

"  You  may  tell  Teresa  before  you  leave ;  but  she 


SISTER    TERESA  261 

must  hear  nothing  of  it  till  the  moment  of  your 
leaving.  I  give  you  permission  merely  to  say 
good-bye  to  her  on  the  day  you  leave,  and  in  the  in- 
terval you  will  see  as  little  of  each  other  as  pos- 
sible." 

But  when  Sister  Mary  John  said  that  Sister 
Elizabeth  could  accompany  Evelyn  as  well  as  she 
could,  the  Prioress  interrupted  her.  "  You  must 
always  accompany  her  when  she  sings  at  Benedic- 
tion. You  must  do  nothing  to  let  her  suspect  that 
you  are  leaving  the  convent  on  her  account." 

And  at  that  moment  the  Prioress  remembered 
that  Evelyn  was  talking  with  Monsignor. 

"  She  thinks  him  a  Bossuet,"  the  Prioress  said 
to  herself,  as  she  returned  to  her  chair ;  "  they  have 
corresponded  for  months  on  literary  questions." 
She  hoped  Evelyn  would  not  be  effusive  in  her  ad- 
miration, and  so  convey  a  false  impression  of  her- 
self, and  then  a  little  smile  hovered  round  the 
corners  of  her  mouth,  a  sign  of  the  thought  that  had 
passed.  She  began  to  arrange  her  papers,  and  as 
she  did  so  Evelyn  asked  the  prelate  to  tell  her  about 
Rome. 

The  last  time  she  had  seen  him  was  in  the  early 
summer,  soon  after  her  clothing,  and  she  had  hardly 
been  able  to  speak  to  him.  She  had  not  recovered 
from  the  shock  of  her  father's  death;  and  he  re- 
called all  the  circumstances  of  it  so  vividly,  the 
very  moment  when  he  had  led  her  from  the  room. 

Her  father's  death  was  almost  as  much  before  her 


262  SISTER    TEEESA 

now  as  then,  but  differently.  Her  grief  had  gone, 
as  it  were,  out  of  the  flesh,  and  was  reflected  now 
merely  in  her  imagination.  It  looked  at  her  out  of 
the  sky  like  a  star,  the  sign  whereby  the  wayfarer 
directs  his  steps.  The  old  poignant  grief  which 
the  sight  of  Monsignor  had  reawakened  in  her  only 
endured  for  a  moment;  she  had  recovered  herself, 
and  was  asking  him  to  tell  her  about  Rome  and  its 
ecclesiastics.  She  thought  of  them  because  of  her 
father's  relations  with  them;  she  talked  gaily  and 
eagerly;  and  yet  she  had,  perhaps,  never  felt  so 
clearly,  nor  had  the  feeling  ever  been  so  conclusive, 
that  the  personal  life  was  dead  in  her,  that  she  now 
lived  for  the  nuns,  in  order  to  keep  them  out  of 
their  difficulties ;  and  that  when  that  was  done  her 
mission  would  be  accomplished. 

All  her  surface  characteristics  remained,  but  in 
her  deeper  self  had  been  changed.  It  seemed  to 
her  that  she  had  been  lifted  out  of  animal  life,  to 
some  extent,  and  had  been  carried  forward,  if  not 
into,  at  least  towards  the  life  of  the  soul.  She  felt 
this  very  clearly  now,  and  yet  she  wished  to  hear  of 
the  little  externalities  of  religion  to  which  pious 
women  devote  so  much  time. 

She  reminded  him  of  things  which  he  had  almost 
forgotten,  and  he  was  surprised  that  she  wished  to 
hear  the  end  of  the  disputation  in  which  he  had 
been  engaged  with  a  certain  cardinal,  who  had 
taken  a  reactionary  view  regarding  the  value  of 
the  Biblical  account  of  the  creation.     She  reminded 


SISTEK    TERESA  253 

him  of  the  arguments  he  had  used,  but  he  had  for- 
gotten them,  and  she  recalled  his  very  words..  He 
had  said  that  the  cardinal  had  committed  the  Church 
as  far  as  he  could  commit  the  Church  to  certain 
opinions  which  might  afterwards  have  to  be  recon- 
sidered. Monsignor  had  said  that  religion  had  noth- 
ing to  fear  from  science.  Science  is  exclusively 
concerned  with  man's  physical  surroundings;  re- 
ligion is,  with  equal  exclusiveness,  concerned  with 
the  development  of  his  moral  consciousness.  She 
said  that  this  way  of  putting  the  question  had 
struck  her  at  the  time ;  and  his  face  lighted  up,  and 
he  expressed  surprise  at  her  memory  of  his  oppo- 
nents and  the  details  of  the  disputation. 

"  Ah,  you  don't  know  what  it  is  to  be  shut  up  for 
more  than  a  year  with  a  lot  of  women  in  a  con- 
vent." 

"  But  I  came  here  to  talk  to  you  about  your  vo- 
cation, to  discover  whether  you  are  called  to  separate 
yourself  from  all  worldly  interests." 

'^  I  have  made  up  my  mind  to  be  a  nun,  but  now 
you  are  here  I  want  to  talk  about  Rome  and  of  its 
people." 

She  had  kept  all  his  letters,  and  knowing  his 
bent  for  theological  discussion  she  had  allowed  cer- 
tain little  heresies  to  creep  into  her  letters,  in  order 
that  he  might  disprove  them  to  her  admiration.  He 
had  replied  at  length,  and  his  letters  were  the  let- 
ters of  a  man  of  liberal  intelligence,  pragmatical 
and  astute.     But  these  letters  coming  into  the  con- 


254  SISTER    TERESA 

ventual  monotony  had  seemed  like  great  manifesta- 
tions of  a  great  central  mind,  and  she  insisted  that 
the  book  he  was  writing  would  give  new  impetus  to 
Catholic  life.  She  exhorted  him  to  take  the  lead, 
to  assert  himself,  for  without  him  Catholic  ideas 
could  make  no  further  progress  in  England.  She 
deplored  that  he  had  not  been  made  a  cardinal  and 
with  an  enthusiasm  that  impressed  him. 

Taking  advantage  of  a  pause  in  the  conversation 
he  mentioned  that  the  writing  of  the  last  portion 
of  his  book  had  been  delayed,  but  he  hoped  to  find 
time  to  finish  it  this  winter.  Then  he  asked  her, 
somewhat  abruptly,  if  certain  scruples  regarding 
the  Holy  Communion  had  passed.  She  answered 
that  they  had  passed,  and  the  conversation  came  to 
an  awkward  pause. 

"  You  have  come  here,"  she  said,  "  to  talk  to  me 
about  myself,  whereas  I  want  to  talk  to  you  about 
you ;  it  will  interest  me  so  much  more.  You  want 
to  find  out  if  I  have  a  vocation,  but  the  more  I  tell 
you  about  myself  the  less  you  will  believe  in  my  vo- 
cation.^' 

The  prelate  persisted,  and  after  some  hesitation 
she  said, — 

"  My  duty  was  to  go  to  Rome  with  my  father, 
but  I  could  not  bring  myself  to  accept  that  duty, 
so  great  was  the  temptation  to  separate  myself  from 
the  world.  Eor  this  wrongdoing  I  was  punished; 
my  father  died,  perhaps  through  my  fault.  His 
death  however  wrought  a  great  change  in  me,  a 


SISTER    TERESA  255 

change  which  had  been  preparing  a  long  while  back. 
I  felt  clearly,  what  I  had  always  felt  indistinctly, 
that  there  is  no  value  in  human  life  at  all  except 
in  so  much  as  it  enables  us  to  develop  our  spiritual 
life.  You  remember  that  I  wrote  to  you  about  a 
man  not  being  given  a  soul,  but  a  germ  which 
might  become  a  soul  if  he  cultivated  it.  It  now 
seems  to  me  that  that  belief  in  the  mortality  and 
the  immortality  of  the  soul  is  what  is  most  natural 
and  inherent  in  me.  It  is  the  original  seed  of  my 
nature,  but  it  was  buried  very  deep,  and  it  took  a 
long  time  to  grow  out  of  the  ground,  l^ow  I  have 
told  you  all  I  know  of  myself,  Monsignor,  all  that 
I  have  learned  in  the  long  year  of  my  novitiate.  I 
have  told  you  the  whole  truth  so  far  as  I  have  gone." 

"  And  you  have  determined  to  take  the  veil  ? 
Tell  me,  you  do  not  find  this  rule  difficult  and  ar- 
duous V^ 

"  So  long  as  we  live  with  those  whose  ideas  corre- 
spond with  ours,  the  rest  matters  very  little." 

"  Remember  that  the  step  is  extremely  grave. 
INTothing  could  be  more  unfortunate  than  that  you 
should  take  vows  merely  because  you  are  friends 
with  these  nuns  and  wish  to  relieve  them  from  their 
pecuniary  embarrassments." 

"  You  are  very  sceptical,  Monsignor.  What  can 
I  say  to  convince  you  ?  That  I  do  not  like  the  rule, 
that  I  find  it  very  difficult  ?" 

She  laughed  and  pressed  him  to  admit  that  that 
was  what  he  was  minded  to  say.    And  he  admitted 


256  SISTER    TERESA 

if  she  had  said  she  found  the  ride  difficult  he  would 
have  found  it  easier  to  believe  in  her  vocation. 

^^  Ah,  mj  past  life — jou  cannot  forget  it ;  you 
are  like  the  others/'  and  she  reminded  him  that  the 
Prioress  herself  had  not  refused  the  world,  like 
Veronica,  but  had  renounced  the  world,  like  her- 
self. 

"  Yet  she  is  our  Reverend  Mother.  Who  knows, 
Monsignor — I  succeeded  on  the  stage,  why  should 
not  I  succeed  equally  well  in  the  convent  ?  Promise 
me  this,  that  if  the  nuns  vote  for  me,  you  will  pro- 
fess me,  and  if  one  day  I  should  be  Prioress  you 
will  write  and  advise  me  on  doctrine  and  on  the 
daily  life  of  my  convent." 

He  could  not  refuse  to  promise  what  she  had 
asked,  and  they  laughed  and  stood  looking  at  each 
other  until  a  bell  rang. 

"  Xow  I  must  go  to  the  sacristy." 

As  she  went  there  she  met  Sister  Mary  John,  and 
she  said, — 

^'  I  think  I  have  convinced  Monsignor,  and  he  has 
promised  to  profess  me." 

"  Then  it  is  settled  ?" 

'^  Yes ;  but  why  do  you  look  so  strange  ?  Do  you 
think  the  nuns  will  not  vote  for  me  ?" 

The  nun  stood  looking  at  Evelyn,  conscious  that 
the  entanglement  was  even  more  intricate  than  she 
had  imagined.  If  Evelyn  were  not  elected  she 
might  leave  the  convent  and  return  to  the  stage. 
She  was  one  who  w^ould  travel  a  certain  distance 


SISTER    TERESA  257 

with  admirable  perseverance,  surmounting  every 
obstacle,  until  one,  very  likely  a  smaller  obstacle 
than  those  she  had  already  passed,  opposed  her, 
then  without  any  very  clear  reason  she  might 
quickly  return  the  way  she  had  come.  "  Should 
Evelyn  leave,"  Sister  Mary  John  thought,  "  I  may 
stay.  I^othing  is  decided,  except  that  we  are  to  be 
separated."  The  nun  asked  herself  if  she  were  de- 
ceiving Evelyn  by  withholding  her  intention  to 
leave  the  convent  as  soon  after  Evelyn's  profession 
as  possible,  and  the  question  whether  she  should 
vote  for  her,  or  abstain  from  voting,  or  vote  against 
her,  perplexed  her.  What  matter,  she  thought, 
since  in  any  case  we  are  to  be  separated. 

"  But  what  is  the  matter,  Sister  ?  Why  do  you 
stand  looking  at  me  like  this  ?" 

The  nun  could  not  answer,  and  Evelyn  was  about 
to  hold  out  her  arms  to  her,  thinking  she  was  going 
to  fall.  At  that  moment  the  Prioress  called.  The 
Prioress  was  on  her  way  to  the  parlour,  and  di- 
vining the  difficulty  that  had  arisen,  she  sent  Sister 
Mary  John  with  a  message  to  Mother  Philippa. 
Her  hand  was  on  the  door  handle,  and  she  entered 
the  parlour  as  soon  as  the  nun  was  out  of  sight. 

"  I  hope  you  are  pleased,  Monsignor,  with  the 

excellent  condition  of  mind  in  which  you   have 

found  our  dear  Sister  Teresa?     She  told  me  she 

intended  to  ask  you  to  profess  her.     I  am  sure  it 

would  be  of  great  assistance  to  her  if  you  would." 

"  Sister  Teresa  and  I  have  had  a  long  talk,  and  I 
17 


258  SISTER    TERESA 

find  her  very  earnest.  I  think  I  may  say  that  I 
found  her  very  much  improved.  She  seems  to  have 
read  and  thought  a  great  deal  since  I  last  saw 
her." 

"  Yes,  Sister  Teresa  reads  a  great  deal ;  theologi- 
cal questions  present  a  great  attraction  to  her  mind." 

Consignor  did  not  answer,  and  he  left  the  Rev- 
erend Mother  to  continue  the  conversation.  She  did 
this  with  alacrity,  and  they  talked  round  the  sub- 
ject. At  last  there  seemed  to  be  nothing  more  to 
say,  and  the  Prioress  found  herself  obliged  to  ask 
him  if  he  thought  Sister  Teresa  had  a  vocation. 

"  I  find  her,  as  I  have  said,  my  dear  Reverend 
Mother,  extremely  earnest;  she  has  evidently 
thought  a  great  deal  on  spiritual  matters.  But  she 
has  only  just  fulfilled  the  required  time  in  the  no- 
vitiate; are  you  sure  she  has  acquired  that  solid 
piety  so  necessary  for  a  religious  life  ?  She  is  very 
emotional.  What  I  mean  is,  should  you  say  that 
her  attitude  towards  the  life  was  normal?" 

"  Sister  Teresa,"  the  old  nun  replied,  "  will  never 
be  normal,  but  her  genius  has  enabled  her  to  assimi- 
late our  rule." 

In  reply  to  further  questions,  he  said  that  he  had 
only  seen  Sister  Teresa  once  in  the  last  six  months. 
Besides,  no  one  was  so  capable  of  deciding  on  a 
nun's  vocation  as  the  Prioress  herself,  and  begged 
her  not  to  be  influenced  by  anything  that  he  had 
said. 

'•  When  the  question  is  decided,  let  me  know,  for 


SISTER    TERESA  2f)9 

I  have  promised  Sister  Teresa  I  will  profess  her 
myself/' 

The  Prioress  looked  at  him  sharplv,  and  as  she 
went  to  her  room  she  thought  of  what  might  have 
happened  if  she  had  been  refused  election,  and  she 
thought  of  the  grave  responsibility  which  she  and 
the  other  Mothers  would  incur  by  refusing  to  vote 
for  Evelyn. 


XXVIII 

It  was  with  this  argument  that  she  sought  to 
overcome  Mother  Mary  Hilda  when  the  Mothers 
met  in  council.  Their  council  was  held  in  the 
Mother's  own  room  after  evening  prayers,  when  no 
light  burned  anywhere,  and  the  nuns  and  the  cana- 
ries were  asleep  in  their  cells  and  cages.  The  Pri- 
oress began  by  saying  that  she  had  consulted  Mon- 
signor,  and  that  he  had  said  nothing  would  give  him 
greater  pleasure  than  to  see  Sister  Teresa  professed, 
but  he  left  the  ultimate  decision  entirely  to  them. 

Mother  Mary  Hilda  held  the  opinion  of  Monsig- 
nor  in  high  esteem,  but  she  did  not  withdraw  her 
opposition,  and  she  questioned  the  Prioress  closely 
as  to  Monsignor's  precise  words,  and  was  mani- 
festly relieved  to  hear  that  he  thought  on  the  sub- 
ject of  a  nun's  vocation  the  nuns  were  the  best 
judges.  So  she  gained  an  advantage  over  the  Pri- 
oress, but  it  was  only  momentary,  for  when  she 
spoke  of  the  shortness  of  Evelyn's  postulancy,  laying 
stress  on  the  fact  that  it  had  been  broken  by  her 
journey  to  Rome,  the  Prioress  said, — 

"  But  all  that  has  been  decided  by  the  Bishop ; 
we  need  not  go  into  that  again.  'No  one  has  so 
much  right  to  form  an  opinion  of  Evelyn's  vocation 
as  you  have,  but  I  cannot  forget  that  from  the  first 

260 


SISTER    TERESA  261 

your  instinct  was  against  her,  and  when  that  is  so 
we  are  never  convinced,  I  am  afraid." 

"  But,  Mother,  I  am  sorry  if  I  seem  to  you  stub- 
bom." 

"  Kot  stubborn,  but  I  would  hear  you  explain 
your  reasons  for  thinking  Sister  Teresa  has  not  a 
vocation,  and  Mother  Philippa  is  most  anxious  to 
hear  them  too." 

Mother  Philippa  listened,  thinking  of  her  bed, 
and  wondering  why  Mother  Mary  Hilda  kept  them 
up  by  refusing  to  agree  with  the  Prioress. 

Mother  Hilda,  with  quiet  obstinacy  and  deter- 
mination, reminded  them  that  they  could  hardly 
point  to  a  case  in  which  a  novice  had  been  elected 
who  had  been  with  them  for  so  short  a  time  as  Sis- 
ter Teresa. 

"  But  we  have  known  Teresa  for  a  long  time — for 
more  than  three  years.  Her  thoughts  have  been  in- 
clining towards  a  religious  life  ever  since  we  have 
known  her.  You  do  not  deny  her  piety.  Her  re- 
ligious fervour  gives  promise  of  the  highest  sanc- 
tity in  the  future;  she  is  animated  with  the  sin- 
cerest  love  of  God." 

"  I  have  no  doubt  whatever  on  that  point,  never- 
theless I  find  it  difficult  to  believe  that  she  will 
prove  a  satisfactory  member  of  the  community. 
She  is  quite  different  from  any  of  us." 

"  I  have  heard  that  phrase  very  often,  and  con- 
fess it  conveys  no  idea  to  my  mind.  We  are  all 
different  from  one  another.     Peter  was  not  like 


262  SISTER    TERESA 

Paul,  uor  was  Catherine  of  Siena  like  St.  Teresa. 
We  are  anxious  to  know,  Mother  Hilda,  what  is 
your  jDrecise  reason  for  thinking  that  Sister  Teresa 
has  not  a  vocation." 

"  You  have  set  me  a  difficult  task,  Mother.  It 
seems  to  me  that  her  piety,  although  very  genuine, 
does  not  penetrate  much  below  the  surface.  A 
good  deal  of  it  seems  to  me  incidental,  and  to  be 
brought  about  by  the  great  grief  which  she  experi- 
enced at  her  father's  death.  I  have  noticed  this 
too,  that  her  piety  does  not  stimulate  others  to  piety 
but  rather  the  reverse.  Since  she  has  been  in  the 
convent  you  will  not  deny  that  she  has  been  a  source 
of  distraction  to  us  all.  We  are  always  thinking  of 
her,  and  talking  of  her  when  we  can.  Inquiries  are 
always  on  foot  concerning  her.  She  is  the  one  that 
all  the  visitors  want  to  see.  Our  visitors  are  excel- 
lent people,  no  doubt;  but  they  spend  a  great  deal 
of  time  in  the  parlour,  and  they  have  to  be  waited 
on  there,  and  the  teas  do  not  end  till  nearly  six 
o'clock.  Xow  comes  another  matter  on  which  I 
would  not  speak  if  speech  could  be  avoided.  It  is  a 
matter  so  delicate  that  I  fear,  whatever  words  I 
use,  my  words  will  misinterpret  my  meaning — what 
I  want  to  say  is  that  Teresa  influences  us  all.  I 
would  remind  you  that  Sister  Mary  John  and 
Veronica  are  absorbed  in  her  influence,  though  I 
am  sure  they  are  not  aware  of  it.  But  it  would 
seem  to  me  impossible  not  to  notice  it.  Have  you 
ever  noticed  it  ?"  Mother  Hilda  said,  appealing  di- 


SISTER    TERESA  263 

rectly  to  the  Prioress  and  Mother  Philippa.  Mother 
Philippa  shook  her  head,  and  then  confessed  she 
had  not  the  slightest  notion  of  what  Mother  Mary 
Hilda  meant. 

The  Prioress  asked  if  she  thought  Sister  Teresa 
had  shown  any  undue  vanity  in  the  attentions  which 
were  paid  to  her. 

"  No,  indeed ;  her  humility  is  so  striking  that 
very  often  I  feel  that  I  may  after  all  be  misjudging 
her.'^ 

"  I  confess  I  completely  fail,"  said  Mother  Phil- 
ippa, "  to  understand  your  objections  to  our  vis- 
itors ;  without  them  we  cannot  live.  They  are  our 
means  of  subsistence,  and  it  was  in  the  hope  of 
attracting  visitors   .    .    ." 

"  I  know,  I  know." 

And  Mother  Hilda  said  she  was  quite  willing  to 
refrain  from  voting;  but  this  was  not  what  the 
Prioress  wished.  Every  nun  must  accept  the  re- 
sponsibility. "  And  it  would  seem,"  she  said, 
"  though  I  do  not  feel  it  myself,  that  very  great 
respbnsibility  attaches  to  Sister  Teresa's  election." 

''  Dear  Reverend  Mother,  I  can  only  repeat  that 
I  think  we  should  wait.  x\nother  year  in  the  novi- 
tiate, perhaps  six  months,  will  prove  whether  her 
desire  is  a  passing  desire  or  a  true  vocation." 

"  But  our  necessities !" 

"  Ah,  Reverend  Mother,  our  necessities  should 
not  influence  us  surely." 

"  Our  necessities  should  not  influence  us  either 


264:  SISTER    TERESA 

way.  But  they  seem  to  influence  you  against  her. 
Don't  they?" 

"  Yes,  I  admit  that  they  do." 

"  Then,  if  you  feel  like  that,"  said  Mother  Phil- 
ippa,  waking  from  a  light  doze  which  had  not  pre- 
vented her  from  hearing  the  conversation,  "  I  think 
that  you  should  abstain  from  voting." 

Instead  of  answering.  Mother  Hilda  asked  the 
Prioress  for  her  reason  for  objecting  to  a  slight 
delay. 

"  If  we  accept  Evelyn  her  salvation  will  be  se- 
cured, and  if  we  yield  to  your  scruples  we  make 
ourselves  responsible  for  all  that  may  happen  to 
her.  I  ask  if  you  are  prepared  to  see  this  house 
and  garden  confiscated.  Although  our  order  is  very 
poor,  some  of  us  may  find  refuge  in  another  con- 
vent. But  many  of  us,  the  younger  ones,  would 
have  to  return  to  their  homes,  and  there  are  our 
poor  lay  Sisters ;   what  will  become  of  them  ?" 

"  Our  circumstances  are  very  trying,  I  know, 
but  I  do  not  think  we  should  allow  them  to  influ- 
ence us." 

"  But  you  have  said,"  rejoined  the  Prioress, 
"  that  they  do  influence  you  against  Teresa,  whereas 
Mother  Philippa  and  I  can  truthfully  say  that  they 
do  not  influence  us  in  her  favour." 

On  that  the  Prioress  rose  to  her  feet,  and  the 
other  two  nuns  understood  that  the  interview  was 
at  an  end. 

"  Dear  Reverend  Mother,  I  know  how  great  your 


SISTER    TERESA  265 

difficulties  are,"  said  Mother  Hilda,  "  and  I  am 
loth  to  oppose  your  wishes  in  anything.  I  know 
how  wise  you  are — how  much  wiser  than  we — ^but 
however  foolishly  I  may  appear  to  be  acting,  you 
will  understand  that  I  cannot  act  differently,  feel- 
ing as  I  do." 

"  I  understand  that.  Mother  Hilda.  We  must 
act  according  to  our  lights.  And  now  we  must  go 
to  bed ;  we  are  breaking  all  the  rules  of  the  house." 


XXIX 

The  Prioress  had  wished  Sister  Mary  John  to 
leave  Evelyn  in  doubt  that  any  change  had  come 
into  their  friendship,  but  no  one  can  act  a  part  when 
their  deepest  feelings  are  engaged,  and  Sister  Mary 
John  had  hurried  past  Evelyn  when  they  met,  and 
during  the  week  Evelyn  noticed  that  Sister  Mary 
John  had  not  spoken  to  her  once  except  to  ask  her 
what  she  was  going  to  sing.  At  any  other  time  Eve- 
lyn would  have  been  seriously  troubled  by  this 
break  in  their  friendship,  but  she  was  thinking  now 
of  her  vows  and  of  her  election,  and  she  dismissed 
all  other  matters  from  her  thoughts,  only  allowing 
herself  to  hope  that  this  estrangement  was  tempo- 
rary, that  when  she  was  elected  a  choir  Sister  she 
and  Sister  Mary  John  would  be  friends  as  they  had 
always  been. 

And  when  Sister  Mary  John  looked  across  the 
chapel  and  saw  Evelyn  absorbed  in  prayer,  she  was 
certain  that  her  love  had  not  been  a  temptation  to 
Evelyn,  and  it  was  a  bitter  gladness  to  see  that  sepa- 
ration from  her  caused  Evelyn  no  pain. 

And  listening  to  the  beautiful  voice  she  thought 
of  the  Prioress's  great  age,  and  of  how  friendless 
Evelyn  would  be  when  she  was  dead.  She  remem- 
bered that  the  nuns  were  jealous  of  Evelyn's  voice, 
and  that  they  resented  the  attention  that  always 
266 


SISTER    TERESA  26^ 

hummed  round  Evelyn  in  the  parlour.  She  foresaw 
nothing  but  unhappiness  for  Evelyn  ]  she  had  begun 
to  doubt  whether  she  had  any  true  vocation,  and  she 
could  not  help  feeling  that  the  best  thing  that  could 
happen  would  be  for  Mother  Hilda's  opposition  to 
succeed. 

But  Mother  Hilda's  opposition  was  overruled, 
Evelyn  was  elected  almost  unanimously,  and  Mon- 
signor  was  coming  to  put  the  ring  on  her  finger. 
In  a  week  she  would  be  plighted  to  Christ,  a  most 
desirable  and  beautiful  bride,  Sister  Mary  John 
thought.  It  seemed  as  if  her  heart  were  about  to 
break,  and  she  longed  to  run  away  to  her  cell,  for 
it  seemed  impossible  to  restrain  her  tears.  What 
account  could  she  give  of  herself  to  the  other  nuns, 
and  the  Prioress  would  know  why  she  was  weeping. 
It  seemed  impossible  to  stifle  her  weary  heart  any 
longer ;  nothing  would  relieve  her  except  to  tell  the 
entire  community  of  her  miserable  condition,  but 
she  had  promised  the  Prioress  not  to  speak  to  Eve- 
lyn of  her  decision  to  leave  the  convent  until  Evelyn 
had  made  her  vows.  Xow  this  promise  seemed  to 
her  most  horrible  and  wicked,  and  to  break  it  seemed 
to  be  her  duty.  There  is  a  vocation  which  admits 
of  no  doubt  whatever,  and  there  is  a  vocation  which 
is  dependent  on  certain  circumstances;  and  how 
did  she  know  that  Evelyn's  vocation  was  not  de- 
pendent upon  the  support  of  her  friendship  in  this 
convent?  how  did  she  know  that  Evelyn  would 
take  the  final  vows  if  she  knew  how  friendless  she 


268  SISTEK    TERESA 

would  be  when  her  friend  was  awaj  in  France,  and 
when  the  Prioress  was  dead  ? 

She  knew  none  of  these  things,  but  she  had  made 
a  terrible  promise,  and  all  the  week  she  lived  in  the 
terrors  of  nightmare.  And  on  the  day  of  Evelyn's 
profession,  when  she  saw  her  walk  between  the 
Prioress  and  Mother  Hilda  in  her  habit  and  white 
veil,  it  seemed  to  the  broken-hearted  nun  that  she 
could  contain  herself  no  longer,  and  that  she  must 
get  up  from  her  place  and  make  a  public  declara- 
tion. Even  in  this  last  moment  it  were  better  to 
make  it  than  to  keep  silence;  yet  she  remained 
kneeling,  watching  this  ceremony.  But  there  is  a 
limit  to  suffering.  She  seemed  to  forget  everything, 
and  awaking  from  a  melancholy  trance  she  listened 
to  Monsignor,  who  was  asking  Evelyn  what  she  had 
come  to  ask  from  the  Church.  She  heard  her  reply 
that  she  sought  to  enter  the  religious  life. 

Then  Monsignor  began  his  address,  and  Sister 
Teresa  stood  listening  to  the  exhortation,  confident 
in  herself  while  she  heard  the  priest  speak  of  the 
difficulties  and  the  crosses  of  the  religious  life.  She 
was  asked  again  if  she  were  prepared  to  embrace  it, 
and  to  all  questions  she  answered  "  Yes,"  and  she 
looked  so  joyful  that  Sister  Mary  John  felt  that 
Evelyn  was  following  her  true  vocation.  She  said 
to  herself,  "  When  one  is  certain  of  one's  self 
nothing  matters ;  Evelyn  will  be  happy  in  the  con- 
vent even  when  the  Prioress  was  dead."  Then  she 
saw  the  tall  figure  cross  to  the  gospel  side  of  the 


SISTEK    TERESA  269 

altar  with  the  two  nuns ;  she  saw  her  sign  her  name 
to  the  vows  she  had  made,  and  when  she  came  back 
Sister  Mary  John  saw  Monsignor  put  the  ring  on 
her  finger.  Evelyn  knelt  at  the  feet  of  the  Prioress, 
who  gave  her  the  black  veil,  and  all  the  nuns  sang 
the  ''  Veni  spousa  CJiristi/' 

And  the  few  people  in  the  church  who  had  wit- 
nessed the  ceremony  felt  as  Evelyn  had  felt  when 
she  saw  the  Birmingham  girl  leave  the  vanity  of  the 
world  for  the  true  realities  of  prayer.  Within  the 
cloister  the  nuns  gathered  round  Evelyn  to  con- 
gratulate her,  and  their  congratulations  seemed  to 
her  more  valid  than  those  which  she  used  to  receive 
for  her  singing  "  Elsa's  Dream."  But  as  they 
pressed  round  her  she  noticed  that  Sister  Mary  John 
was  striving  to  absent  herself,  and  breaking  from 
them  she  called  to  her, — 

"  How  is  this.  Sister  ?  I  do  not  hear  you  say 
anything ;   and  why  would  you  go  away  yourself  ?" 

"  I  am  glad,  Teresa,  indeed  I  am  glad,"  and  she 
added  under  her  breath,  "  More  glad  than  I  expected 
to  be." 

"  Did  you  doubt  my  vocation  then  ?" 

Sister  Mary  John  strove  to  disengage  her  hands; 
which  Evelyn  held,  and  the  other  nuns  had  begun 
to  wonder;  in  another  moment  they  would  have 
begun  to  surmise  that  something  was  wrong,  but  the 
Prioress  intervened  and  took  Evelyn  into  the  garden 
and  told  her  that  her  dearest  wishes  had  been  real- 
ised. 


270  SISTER    TERESA 

'^  I  am  glad,  too,  dear  Mother ;  and  jou  are  ac- 
countable for  a  great  deal  of  wliat  has  happened; 
for  I  doubt  if  I  should  ever  have  had  the  strength 
without  JOU.  But,  dear  Mother,  tell  me  v^hat  has 
happened  to  Sister  Mary  John  ?  Did  you  notice 
that  she  was  the  only  one  who  did  not  come  to  con- 
gratulate me?  For  some  time  I  have  noticed  that 
she  avoids  me  in  a  way  she  never  did  before." 

'^  It  was  necessary,  Teresa,  for  you  and  Sister 
Mary  John  to  see  a  great  deal  of  each  other,  but  a 
nun  must  always  remember  that  she  belongs  wholly 
to  God." 

"  Dear  Mother,  it  was  Sister  Mary  John's  exam- 
ple that  brought  me  to  God.  She  has  been  almost  as 
great  a  help  to  me  as  you,  and  this  estrangement  has 
spoilt  the  pleasure  of  the  day  for  me." 

"  You  will  remember  what  I  say,  Teresa :  a 
nun  belongs  wholly  to  God,  and  you  must  not  try 
to  force  upon  Sister  Mary  John  a  friendship  which 
she  does  not  wish." 

The  Prioress's  voice  had  suddenly  become  cold; 
almost  cruel.  Evelyn's  heart  misgave  her.  She 
felt  that  something  had  happened — something  ter- 
rible, and  she  lay  awake  thinking  of  it.  Her 
thoughts  roved  about  the  truth,  not  daring  to  ap- 
proach it,  whereas  Sister  Mary  John  knew  it  and 
she  foresaw  that  Evelyn  would  question  her.  Her 
unhappiness  was  so  great  that  her  exile  seemed  to 
her  less  than  the  explanation  that  awaited  her  on 
the  morning  of  her  departure.     Every  day  was  a 


SISTER    TERESA  271 

great  labour,  but  the  morning  was  now  at  hand,  for 
the  lady  with  whom  Sister  Mary  John  w^as  to  travel 
had  written  to  the  Prioress  saying  that  her  depart- 
ure had  been  unexpectedly  hastened.  She  hoped 
that  it  would  suit  dear  Sister  Mary  John's  con- 
venience equally  well  to  travel  this  week  as  the  fol- 
lowing week.  Sister  Mary  John  looked  upon  this 
shortening  of  her  torment  as  providential,  for  yes- 
terday Evelyn  had  stopped  her  and  begged  her  to 
explain  why  she  no  longer  spoke  to  her.  Evelyn 
had  written  an  impassioned  letter,  and  Sister  Mary 
John  had  begun  to  feel  that  she  could  not  bear  the 
strain  any  longer. 

IN^ext  morning  she  opened  the  library  door,  and 
Evelyn's  eyes  lighted  up,  thinking  they  were  about 
to  be  reconciled ;  but  the  light  died  out  of  them  in- 
stantly, for  Sister  Mary  John  wore  a  long  black 
cloak  over  her  habit,  and  she  had  a  bird  cage  in  her 
hand,  and  Evelyn  saw  the  sly  jackdaw  with  his 
head  on  one  side  looking  at  her. 

"  I  have  come  to  say  good-bye  to  you,  Teresa ;  I 
am  going  away." 

"  ]^ow  I  understand  why  you  have  not  spoken  to 
me  for  so  long.  This  is  the  reason  of  the  change, 
i^ow  I  understand  it  all,  and  you  are  taking  your 
jackdaw  w^ith  you." 

"  Yes ;  I  was  afraid  he  might  pine  and  die,  and 
dear  Mother  said  I  might  take  him  with  me." 

Evelyn  asked  her  about  the  journey,  for  she  did 
not  dare  to  ask  her  if  she  had  told  the  Prioress  the 


272  SISTER    TERESA 

reason  why  she  wanted  to  leave.  She  did  not  like 
to  ask  her  if  she  had  consulted  the  other  nuns  or 
Father  Daly,  and  they  wasted  a  good  deal  of  this 
last  time  together  talking  of  indifferent  things.  But 
when  Sister  Mary  John  took  up  the  cage,  she 
cried, — 

"For  how  long?" 

"  For  always." 

"  Oh,  Sister,  you  must  hear  me  before  you  go ! 
You  know  how  fond  I  have  been  of  you.  I  shall 
not  be  able  to  live  in  the  convent  without  you.  I 
have  no  scruples  whatever ;  so  why  should  you  have 
scruples  regarding  your  affection  for  me  ?" 

"  Each  one,  dear  Teresa,  is  guardian  to  her  own 
soul,  and  if  I  feel  I  am  losing  my  soul  by  remaining 
I  must  go." 

"  But,  Sister,  dear,  you  brought  me  nearer  to 
God.  Had  it  not  been  for  you,  I  might  never  have 
had  the  courage  to  take  the  final  vows." 

"  I  am  glad  if,  through  me,  you  learnt  to  love 
God  better.     That  is  so  much  to  the  good." 

"  I  thought  this  estrangement  was  only  tempo- 
rary. I  am  distracted.  I  cannot  think  of  what  I 
want  to  say  to  you ;  but  when  you  are  gone  I  shall 
remember,  and  ask  myself  why  I  did  not  say  this  to 
her  and  that  to  her.  One  moment.  Tell  me — it  is 
only  fair  that  you  should  tell  me — how  our  love  of 
each  other  has  altered  our  love  of  God." 

"  I  can  never  tell  you,  Teresa.  I  can  only  say  I 
understand — perhaps  as  I  never  did  before — that 
nothing  must  come  between  the  soul  and  God,  and 


SISTER    TERESA  2Y3 

that  there  is  no  room  for  other  love  in  our  hearts. 
We  must  remember  always  that  we  are  the  brides  of 
Christ — you  and  I,  Sister — and  I  am  leaving  you 
that  we  may  both  give  our  love  more  wholly  to  our 
crucified  Lord/' 

They  stood  holding  each  other's  hands,  and  some 
of  Sister  Mary  John's  spiritual  exaltation  passed 
into  Evelyn,  and  she  began  to  feel  that  this  parting 
was  inevitable. 

"  Won't  you  kiss  me  before  you  go  ?" 

"  Please,  let  me  go.  It  will  be  better  not.  The 
carriage  is  waiting,  I  must  go." 

She  went  to  the  carriage  that  was  waiting  for  her 
in  the  lane,  and  Evelyn  took  up  her  pen  as  if  she 
were  going  to  continue  her  writing,  but  she  put  it 
down,  and  she  walked  up  the  room  like  one  dazed. 
If  anyone  had  spoken  to  her  she  would  not  have 
been  able  to  answer  resonably,  and  she  was  staring 
blankly  out  of  the  window  when  the  Prioress  en- 
tered the  library. 

"  Mother,  what  does  all  this  mean  ?  Why  did  you 
let  her  go  ?" 

The  Prioress  sat  down  slowly,  and  looked  at  Eve- 
lyn without  speaking. 

"  Mother,  you  might  have  let  her  stay  for  my 
sake." 

"  I  allowed  her  to  see  you  before  she  left,  and 
that  was  the  most  I  could  do  in  the  circumstances." 

Evelyn  stared  out  of  the  window,  and  the  old  nun 

sat  still  in  ^he  armchair. 

18 


274  SISTER    TERESA 

The  terrace,  and  the  trees  at  the  end  of  St.  Peter's 
Walk,  and  the  grass  plots  and  the  flower  beds 
seemed  to  mock  her,  and  in  a  flutter  of  terror  she 
thought  of  the  pain  of  intermittent  memories,  for 
the  grief  she  suffered  now  would  multiply  in  her 
heart. 

"  Mother,  you  might  have  advised  her  to  wait, 
for  I  believed  she  acted  on  mere  scruples." 

"  She  felt  that  by  staying  here  she  was  imperil- 
ling her  vocation  and  yours,  and  it  was  not,  I  assure 
you,  without  due  reflection  that  she  decided  she 
must  go.  I  insisted  on  her  waiting  to  see  if  she 
would  think  differently." 

The  words  suggested  to  Evelyn  that  this  leave- 
taking  had  been  held  over  until  she  had  taken  the 
final  vows,  and  she  said  that  she  should  have  been 
told  of  this  before.  But  the  Reverend  Mother  could 
not  allow  a  nun's  mind  to  be  troubled  during  the 
time  of  preparation  for  her  vows;  it  had  to  be  held 
over.  Evelyn  did  not  answer.  It  was  terrifying 
to  remember  that  no  one  had  ever  believed  in  her 
vocation  except  the  Prioress.  Mother  Hilda  had 
not  believed ;  Monsignor  had  had  doubts.  So  much 
had  depended  on  her  joining  the  community;  she 
had  wished  to  help  them,  and  it  did  not  seem  pos- 
sible in  any  other  way. 

"  Do  you  still  believe  in  my  vocation.  Mother." 

"  Yes,  Teresa,  I  feel  quite  certain.  Put  all  such 
doubts  away  from  you." 

'^  Ah,  if  I  could.  My  vocation  has  been  so  dif- 
ferent from  anyone  else's." 


SISTER    TERESA  275 

"  Don^t  think  I  blame  either  you  or  Sister  Mary 
John  for  what  has  occurred.  I  only  blame  myself. 
I  ought  to  have  foreseen  it.  It  all  comes  from 
having  exempted  you  from  the  rules  on  account  of 
the  music;  no  one  deplores  infraction  of  the  rule 
more  than  I  do ;  it  never  answers,  only  in  this  case 
there  seemed  to  be  no  alternative.'^ 

"  It  was  necessary  to  me  to  become  a  nun,  so  the 
rule  was  broken.  What  is  it  that  guides  these 
things  ?  It  is  not  we.  ...  It  is  God ;  Providence 
is  behind  it  all.  I  can  see  the  hand  of  Providence 
in  it  all  as  I  look  back.  But  Sister  Mary  John 
might  have  stayed.  I  feel  sure  that  this  is  a  mis- 
take; her  scruples  were  imaginary,  and  her  going 
has  done  nothing  except  to  trouble  my  peace  of 
mind.  And  what  will  the  Sisters  think  of  it  ?  Are 
they  to  know  that  it  was  because  of  me  ?" 

"  The  Sisters  will  never  know,''  the  Prioress 
answered  with  a  little  vehemence.  "  It  is  a  secret 
between  you  and  me  and  Sister  Mary  John.  I 
forbid  you  ever  to  tell  anyone  the  reason  for  her 
going.  Teresa,  I  know  this  is  a  heavy  trial  for  you, 
and  I  am  ready  to  do  all  in  my  power  to  turn  it 
to  good  account.  Dear  Teresa,"  and  the  old  nun 
took  her  hand,  '^  our  greatest  happiness  comes  when 
we  have  put  away  every  worldly  recollection;  it 
is  often  very  hard  to  do  this,  but  when  we  have  made 
the  sacrifice  we  are  glad  of  it.  I  had  a  photograph 
of  one  who  was  very  dear  to  me  once,  and  it  was 
a  long  while  before  I  could  bring  myself  to  destroy 


216  SISTEE    TERESA 

it ;  but  when  I  burnt  it  I  was  glad.  We  musl  try 
to  understand  that  the  things  of  this  world  are 
nothing-  that  this  world  is  passing  always  liki» 
water  and  that  our  lives  pass  with  it.  Your  griex 
will  fade  as  all  the  things  of  this  world  fade.  There 
is  only  one  thing  that  does  not  fade,  love  of  God. 
We  are  happy  in  it,  and  we  are  always  unhappy  out- 
side it.  Doing  His  work  is  the  only  happiness. 
You  have  discovered  it  yourself;  it  was  that  tha^ 
brought  you  here." 

"  Oh,  Mother,  all  you  say  is  right;  but  life  in 
difficult,  at  this  moment  it  is  inexplicably  so.  It  was 
she  who  taught  me  to  love  God,  and  now  she  leaves 
me  for  ^God's  sake.  If  I  should  love  Him  less  now 
that  she  has  gone,  what  a  misfortune  that  would 
be.  Then  I  should  have  lost  all."  And  turning 
suddenly  to  the  Reverend  Mother,  Evelyn  said, 
"  But  she  need  not  have  gone,  Mother.  Why  did 
you  not  make  her  stay  ?  Her's  was  only  a  scruple ; 
she  fancied  she  was  giving  to  me  what  belonged  to 
God.  But  God  had  all  of  her :  I  know  better  than 
anyone  how  entirely  he  possessed  her." 

"  Believe  me,  Teresa,  there  was  no  choice  for  her 
but  to  go.  She  confided  in  me,  and  I  could  not 
bring  myself  to  say  she  was  not  to  go;  you  only 
look  at  it  from  your  point  of  view.  For  you  there 
was  no  danger  in  this  friendship,  for  you  are  dif- 
ferent women — ^your  lives  have  been  so  different." 

"  I  wonder.  Mother,  if  you  know  how  miserable 
I  am  ?    Before  my  profession  I  was  sure  of  myself, 


SISTER   TERESA  277 

or  nearly,  and  I  thought  my  vocation  quite  sure. 
But  for  this  last  two  weeks  I  have  been  despondent 
and  doubtful,  so  this  comes  as  a  greater  shock  now 
than  at  any  other  time." 

"  The  clothing  brings  great  relief,  and  everyone 
is  happy  after  her  clothing;  but  I  think  everyone 
is  despondent  and  doubtful  after  the  final  vows. 
You  see  profession  brings  such  a  change  into  a 
nun's  life.  During  her  noviceship  she  is  as  a  child ; 
there  is  always  the  E^ovice  Mistress  to  run  to  when 
she  is  uncertain  or  despondent.  She  will  find  help 
and  cheerfulness  in  her.  When  the  final  vow  re- 
leases her  from  the  novitiate,  all  these  supports  are 
taken  away  from  her.  For  the  first  time  she  has  to 
rely  upon  herself,  to  judge  for  herself — I  have  never 
known  it  otherwise.  You  may  be  sure,  Teresa,  that 
you  will  be  quite  contented  and  happy  in  a  few 
months." 

"  It  seems  impossible,  Mother." 

"  When  we  are  despondent  happiness  seems  as  if 
it  would  never  come  again,  and  when  we  are  happy 
our  happiness  seems  inherent  in  ourselves,  and  we 
do  not  believe  that  it  can  ever  pass  from  us." 


XXX 

All  sorts  of  reasons  were  given  for  Sister  Mary 
John's  departure;  the  nuns  chattered  like  moon- 
awakened  birds,  and  then  the  convent  fell  back  into 
silence. 

As  the  year  closed,  the  old  Prioress  began  to  think 
that  the  incident  was  dead  and  that  no  consequences 
would  be  begotten.  But  the  friendship  of  the  two 
nuns  remained  unconsciously  associated  in  every- 
one's mind  with  the  sudden  departure  of  one  of 
them  from  the  convent ;  and  behind  these  ideas 
there  lay  a  half-reticulated  background  of  suspicion 
regarding  P_;veljTi.  Without  knowing  why,  the  con- 
vent had  begun  to  resent  its  dependency  upon  her 
singing.  In  the  beginning  of  the  following  year 
Sister  Winifred,  who  had  done  a  set  of  caricatures 
of  the  lay  Sisters  cooking  under  difficulties,  when 
the  pipes  were  frozen  and  there  was  no  water  in 
the  kitchen,  conceived  the  idea  that  she  might  con- 
tribute to  the  general  purse  by  selling  her  sketches 
in  the  parlour.  They  had  amused  the  visitors,  and 
encouraged  by  the  sale  of  a  copy  of  the  convent 
Murillo,  she  had  applied  herself  to  a  set  of  altar 
pieces.  One  of  these  had  been  bought  by  the  lady 
who  had  given  her  the  paints.  Sister  Winifred  had 
278 


SISTER    TERESA  279 

been  given  a  painting  room;  it  had  become  the 
fashion  to  visit  it,  and  the  departure  of  the  visitors, 
whom  it  was  already  difficult  to  induce  to  leave  the 
convent  after  Benediction,  was  still  further  delayed. 
Sister  Winifred  had  become  a  considerable  person 
in  the  convent,  and  the  fact  that  the  Prioress  did 
not  admire  her  painting  did  not  discourage  Sister- 
Winifred.  She  had  answered,  "  Dear  Mother,  you 
can  only  admire  Evelyn's  singing." 

A  few  months  later  Sister  Agatha  discovered  an 
unsuspected  talent  in  herself.  She  did  not  make  it 
known  to  the  Prioress  until  she  had  accumulated 
a  large  heap  of  manuscript  on  the  life  of  her 
favourite  saint,  and  her  proposal  was  that  the  pro- 
ceeds of  the  work  should  be  devoted  to  paying  off 
the  convent  debts.  Another  nun  knew  French,  and 
a  second  remembered  that  she  knew  German.  Then 
someone  spoke  of  a  school,  and  the  idea  seemed  to 
them  the  very  happiest;  a  school  would  give  them 
all  an  opportunity  of  doing  something  for  the  con- 
vent, and  the  conversion  of  Wimbledon  to  Rome 
became  a  subject  of  conversation.  Sister  Winifred's 
pictures  and  Sister  Agatha's  manuscripts  had  never 
been  taken  very  seriously;  they  had  merely  served 
as  a  pretext  for  the  Sisters  to  discuss  what  was 
in  their  minds.  But  the  idea  of  a  school  seemed  to 
formulate  many  aspirations;  it  seemed  like  the 
solution  of  all  their  difficulties,  and  at  every  recrea- 
tion groups  of  nuns  collected  to  discuss  the  financial 
possibilities  of  the  project,  and  to  tell  each  other  of 


280  SISTEK    TEEESA 

the  visitors  who  offered  to  send  their  daughters  to 
them. 

"  They  all  seem  to  forget/'  the  Prioress  said  to 
Mother  Hilda,  as  she  passed  down  St.  Peter's  Walk, 
"  that  to  start  a  school  would  mean  to  alter  the  rule 
of  our  order.'' 

"  You  know  that  I  do  not  approve,  dear  Mother, 
but  what  they  say  is  that  since  the  contemplative 
side  of  our  house  has  been  so  largely  infringed  upon 
it  might  be  well  to  go  a  little  further  and  undertake 
a  school." 

The  Prioress  winced  a  little;  she  knew  Mother 
Hilda  held  her  to  be  personally  responsible  for  the 
change.  Eor,  according  to  Mother  Hilda,  the 
change  was  inherent  in  Evelyn's  election,  which  the 
Prioress  had  directly  forced  upon  the  convent. 
Mother  Hilda  would  go  further  back  still.  The 
Prioress  knew  she  would  trace  the  origin  of  the 
disaster  to  the  admission  of  Evelyn  into  the  con- 
vent 

IN'othing  more  was  said  at  the  time,  but  a  few 
days  later  the  matter  came  up  for  general  discussion 
in  chapter,  and  the  Prioress  pointed  out  that  the 
teaching  of  music  and  painting,  and  French  and 
German  was  contrary  to  the  rule,  and  could  never 
be  lawfully  undertaken,  that  if  teaching  were  under- 
taken without  the  express  permission  of  the  Mother 
General  it  would  mean  cutting  themselves  off  from 
the  Mother  House  in  France.  It  would  mean  prac- 
tically the  establishment  of  a  new  foundation,  which 


SISTEK    TEKESA  281 

would  be  classed  among  the  active  rather  than  the 
contemplative  orders. 

The  dissidents  had  Mother  Philippa  on  their  side, 
and  the  Prioress's  argument  regarding  the  new 
foundation  did  not  frighten  them.  They  admitted 
that  the  Passionist  Sisters  had  never  kept  a  school 
before,  but  they  said  there  was  nothing  in  their  rule 
to  prevent  them  from  doing  so.  Sister  Winifred 
held  that  the  Prioress's  faith  in  their  work  as  con- 
templative nuns  amounted  to  fanaticism,  and  that 
she  clung  to  the  letter  of  the  rule  with  mistaken 
rigidity — the  rule  was  made  for  them,  and  not  they 
for  the  rule,  etc.  During  the  next  recreation  fresh 
arguments  were  discovered  in  favour  of  the  relaxa- 
tion of  the  rule.  It  was  pointed  out  that  many  of 
the  enclosed  orders  had  schools  and  lived  by  teach- 
ing, that  to  refuse  the  advantages  which  a  rich  sub- 
urb like  Wimbledon  held  out  to  them  was  narrow- 
minded;  and  the  Prioress  was  held  up  as  the  type 
of  a  mediasval  Catholic.  It  was  said  that  an  appeal 
to  the  Bishop  must  end  by  a  decision  in  their  favour, 
for  the  whole  tendency  of  modern  Catholicism  was 
to  look  more  favourably  on  the  active  than  on  the 
contemplative  orders.  The  prospect  of  Wimbledon's 
conversion  would  win  the  Bishop  to  their  side,  and 
Sister  Winifred  spoke  of  the  high  place  their  com- 
munity would  take  in  the  annals  of  the  Church. 
She  obtained  the  unqualified  approval  of  some,  but 
there  were  two  Sisters  who  inclined  towards  a 
poultry  farm.     The  little  orchard  at  the  end  of  the 


282  SISTER    TERESA 

garden  could  be  turned  into  an  excellent  chicken 
run,  and  thev  had  calculated  that  three  hundred 
hens  would  pay  the  convent  debts  in  less  than  three 
years.  After  some  discussion  it  was  discovered  that 
the  poultry  farm  and  the  school  did  not  conflict,  so 
the  poultry  farmers  and  the  educationalists  made 
common  cause  against  the  contemplatives,  and  at 
the  end  of  the  month  the  two  factions  sat  on  dif- 
ferent sides  of  the  garden,  congratulating  them- 
selves on  their  admirable  self-control  in  refraining 
from  speech. 

Schism  provokes  schism,  and  the  patient  lay  Sis- 
ters grew  discontented  with  their  lot.  One  day  Sis- 
ter Agnes  was  heard  saying  that  her  idea  of  an  order 
w^as  ^'  the  Little  Sisters  of  the  Poor" ;  and  a  few 
days  after  she  told  a  group  of  choir  Sisters,  as  she 
passed  up  the  garden,  that  they  were  merely  fashion- 
able ladies,  mostly  converts.  In  extenuation  of  Sis- 
ter Agnes^s  rudeness  a  nun  mentioned  that  she  was 
merely  a  lay  Sister,  and  another  mentioned  that  the 
chaplain  held  very  strong  views  about  the  active 
order.  He  was  a  favourite  with  the  lay  Sisters — he 
was  of  their  class  and  shared  their  ideas. 

Evelyn  felt  that  she*  could  not  take  sides,  and 
these  dissensions  filled  her  with  misgivings,  for  was 
she  not  the  cause  of  them  ?  There  had  been  none 
till  she  came,  and  she  wondered  if  she  would  always 
be  a  discord  and  what  change  would  have  to  happen 
in  her  to  bring  her  into  the  common  order.  She 
had  been  the  cause  of  confusion  before,  and  ap- 


SISTER    TERESA  283 

parentlj  worse  confusion  was  about  to  follow.  She 
had  come  to  the  convent  because  the  world  was 
lonely,  and  in  this  convent  they  had  lived  enfolded 
in  an  exquisite  spiritual  atmosphere.  Each  one 
knew  the  other,  though  the  other  spoke  very  little; 
the  convent  was  a  spiritual  camp ;  and  the  prayers 
of  each  one  were  a  contribution  to  the  common  weal. 
It  was  from  this  intimacy  of  thought  and  endeavour 
that  they  derived  their  happiness.  But  they  had 
fallen  from  their  high  estate,  they  had  grasped  at 
the  things  of  this  world,  they  had  conspired  like  the 
angels. 

It  had  seemed  to  the  sub-Prioress  that  she  could 
manage  a  school.  Her  capacity  for  business  had 
attracted  all  the  business  of  the  convent  to  her,  but 
it  had  not  been  enough  to  satisfy  her  energy,  and 
Sister  Winifred  tempted  her  alternately  with  a 
school  and  a  laundry,  and  whenever  she  came  to  her 
cell  to  consult  her  regarding  some  business  detail, 
they  indulged  in  a  little  chaff;  the  temptation  to 
talk  about  the  Prioress  was  irresistible. 

"  We  all  admire  the  Prioress,"  said  Sister  Wini- 
fred ;  ^^  no  one  understands  her  merits  better  than 
I;  it  is  indeed  a  pity  she  should  be  so  narrow- 
minded  upon  one  point.  Don't  you  think  you  could 
influence  her  ?" 

^^  I  have  known  her  these  many  years,  she  is  an 
admirable  woman  in  many  ways.  I  doubt,  how- 
ever, we  shall  ever  induce  her  to  agree  to  any  re- 
laxation of  the  rule." 


284  SISTEK    TERESA 

Then  Sister  Winifred  spoke  of  the  Prioress's  in- 
fluence with  Father  Ambrose  and  the  Bishop,  but 
she  did  not  tell  her  hopes  of  throwing  Father  Daly 
into  the  opposite  scale.  She  took  no  one  into  her 
confidence  and  waited  her  opportunity ;  and  think- 
ing over  the  arguments  she  would  use,  she  remem- 
bered with  a  little  thrill  of  delight  how  bitterly  he 
resented  the  usurping  Prioress,  who  had  reduced  his 
spiritual  administration  to  the  mere  act  of  abso- 
lution. This  was  clearly  the  point  of  attack,  and 
seeing  him  a  few  days  after,  pacing  the  garden  alley 
reading  his  breviary,  she  went  tripping  down  the 
pathway,  asking  in  a  little  insidious  tone,  which  at 
once  caught  his  attention,  if  she  could  consult  him 
on  a  matter  of  importance. 

She  was  a  tall,  thin  woman,  with  a  narrow  fore- 
head, a  long,  thin  nose,  and  prominent  teeth,  ex- 
tremely plain  at  first  sight,  but  at  second  sight  her 
quick  brown  eyes  revealed  an  eager  and  alert  mind. 
And  she  began  by  tellling  him  that  she  had  chosen 
this  opportunity  to  speak  to  him  because  she  did  not 
dare  to  do  so  in  the  confessional. 

"  It  would  take  too  much  time.''  And  there  was 
a  little  kindly  malice  in  her  brown  eyes  as  she  said, 
"  You  know  how  strict  the  Prioress  is  that  we  should 
not  exceed  our  regulation  three  minutes." 

"I  know  that  quite  well,"  the  little  man  answered 
abruptly,  "  a  most  improper  rule ;  but,  however, 
we  will  not  discuss  the  Prioress,  dear  Sister  Wini- 
fred I  what  have  you  come  to  tell  me  ?" 


SISTER    TERESA  285 

"  Well,  in  a  way,  it  is  about  the  Prioress.  You 
know  all  about  our  financial  difficulties,  and  you 
know  that  they  are  not  settled  yet." 

"  I  thought  that  Sister  Teresa's  singing " 

'^  Of  course  Sister  Teresa's  singing  has  done  us  a 
great  deal  of  good,  but  the  collections  have  fallen 
off  considerably,  and  as  for  the  rich  Catholics  who 
were  to  pay  off  our  debts,  they  are  like  the  ships 
coming  from  the  East,  but  whose  masts  have  not 
yet  appeared  above  the  horizon." 

"  But  does  the  Prioress  still  believe  that  these 
rich  Catholics  will  come  to  her  aid  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  she  still  believes ;  she  tells  us  that  we 
must  pray,  and  that  if  we  pray  they  will  come. 
Well,  Father,  prayer  is  very  well,  but  we  must  try 
to  help  ourselves,  and  we  have  been  thinking  it  over, 
and  in  thinking  it  over  some  of  us  have  come  to 
very  practical  conclusions " 

"  You  have  come  to  the  conclusion  that  perhaps  a 
good  deal  of  time  is  wasted  in  this  garden  which 
might  be  devoted  to  good  works." 

"  Yes,  that  has  struck  us,  and  we  think  the  best 
way  out  of  our  difficulties  would  be  a  school — a 
school !  Something  must  be  done,"  she  said,  "  and 
we  are  thinking  of  starting  a  school.  We  have  re- 
ceived a  great  deal  of  encouragement.  I  believe  I 
could  get  twenty  pupils  to-morrow,  but  Mother 
Prioress  won't  hear  of  it.  She  tells  us  that  we  are 
to  pray  and  that  all  will  come  right.    But  even  she 


286  SISTER    TERESA 

does  not  depend  entirely  upon  prayer ;  she  depends 
upon  Sister  Teresa's  singing." 

'^  A  most  unsatisfactory  source  of  income,  I 
should  say." 

"  So  we  all  think." 

They  walked  some  paces  in  silence  until  they  were 
within  a  few  yards  of  the  end  of  the  walk,  and  just 
as  they  were  about  to  turn  the  priest  said, — 

"  I  was  talking  at  the  Bishop's  to  a  priest  who  has 
been  put  in  charge  of  a  parish  in  one  of  the  poorest 
parts  of  south  London.  There  is  no  school,  and  the 
people  are  disheartened,  and  he  has  gone  to  live 
among  them  in  a  wretched  house  in  one  of  the  worst 
slums  of  the  district.  He  lives  in  one  of  the  upper 
rooms,  and  has  turned  the  ground  floor,  which  used 
to  be  a  greengrocer's  shop,  into  a  temporary  chapel 
and  school,  and  now  he  is  looking  for  some  nuns  to 
help  him  in  the  work.  He  asked  me  if  I  could 
recommend  any;  and  I  thought  of  you  all  here, 
Sister  Winifred,  with  your  beautiful  church  and 
garden,  doing  what  I  call  elegant  piety.  The  more 
I  see  of  it  the  less  I  like  it.  It  has  come  to  seem  to 
me  unbearably  sad  that  you  and  I  and  those  few 
here  who  could  do  such  good  work  should  be  kept 
back  from  doing  it." 

"  I  am  afraid  our  habit,  Father,  makes  that  sort 
of  work  out  of  the  question  for  us,"  and  Sister  Wini- 
fred dropped  her  habit  for  a  moment,  and  let  it 
trail  gracefully. 

"  Long  grey  habits  that  a  speck  of  dirt  will  stain 


SISTER    TERESA  287 

are  very  suitable  to  trail  over  green  swards,  but  not 
fit  to  bring  into  the  houses  of  the  poor,  for  fear 
they  should  be  spoiled.  Oh,"  he  cried,  "  I  have  no 
patience  with  such  rules,  such  petty  observances. 
I  have  often  asked  myself  why  the  Bishop  chose  to 
put  me  here  where  I  am  entirely  out  of  sympathy, 
where  T  am  useless,  where  there  is  nothing  for  me 
to  do  really  except  for  me  to  try  to  keep  my  temper. 
I  have  spoken  of  this  matter  to  no  one  before,  but 
since  you  have  come  to  speak  to  me,  Sister  Wini- 
fred, I  too  must  speak.  Ever  since  I  have  been  here 
I  have  been  longing  to  do  some  work  which  I  could 
feel  to  be  the  work  I  was  intended  to  do,  which 
I  could  feel  was  my  work.  It  is  terrible  to  continue 
all  one's  life  doing  work  that  is  not  one's  work." 

"  It  is  the  fate  of  many  of  us  here.  Father  Daly." 

"  If  we  could  make  a  new  foundation — if  some 
three  or  four  of  you — if  the  Bishop  would  send  me 
there." 

"  Of  course  we  might  go  and  do  good  work  in 
the  district  you  speak  of,  but  I  doubt  whether  th? 
Bishop  would  recognise  us  as  a  new  foundation." 

"  You  were  telling  me  of  your  project  for  a 
school,  Sister  Winifred." 

Sister  Winifred  entered  into  the  details  of  her 
plan,  jerking  out  little  sentences  and  watching 
Eather  Daly  with  her  quick  brown  eyes.  But  she 
had  unduly  excited  Father  Daly;  he  could  not 
listen  to  her.  "  My  position  here,"  he  said,  inter- 
rupting her,  "  is  an  impossible  one.    The  only  ones 


288  SISTEK    TERESA 

here  who  consider  my  advice  are  the  lay  Sisters,  the 
admirable  lay  Sisters  who  work  from  morning  till 
evening,  and  forego  their  prayers  lest  you  should 
want  for  anything.  I  am  treated  very  nearly  with 
contempt  by  nearly  all  the  choir  Sisters.  Do  you 
think  I  do  not  know  that  I  am  spoken  of  as  a  mere 
secular  priest?  Every  suggestion  of  mine  meets 
with  some  rude  answer.  You  have  witnessed  a  good 
deal  of  this.  Sister  Winifred.  I  daresay  you  have 
forgotten,  but  I  remember  it  all.  You  have  come 
to  speak  to  me  here  because  the  Prioress  will  not 
allow  you  to  spend  more  than  three  minutes  in  the 
confessional,  arrogating  to  herself  the  position  of 
your  spiritual  adviser,  allowing  to  me  nothing  more 
than  what  is  to  her  the  mere  mechanical  act  of  ab- 
solution. I  am  a  mere  secular  priest,  incapable  of 
advising  those  who  live  in  an  order!  Have  I  not 
noticed  her  deference  to  the  very  slightest  word  that 
Eather  Ambrose  deigns  to  speak  to  her?  with  what 
deference  she  waits  for  his  words !  ^ow,  as  to  her 
rule  regarding  my  confessional,  I  can  only  say  that 
I  have  always  regarded  it  as  extremely  unorthodox, 
and  I'm  sure  that  the  amateur  confessional  which 
she  carries  on  upstairs  would  be  suppressed  were  it 
brought  under  the  notice  of  Rome.  I  have  long  been 
determined  to  resist  it,  and  I  beg  you.  Sister  Wini- 
fred, when  you  come  to  me  to  confession,  that  you 
will  stay  as  long  as  you  think  proper.  On  this  mat- 
ter I  now  see  that  the  Prioress  and  I  must  come  to 
an  understanding." 


SISTEK    TERESA  289 

"  But  not  a  word,  Father  Daly,  must  we  breathe 
to  her  of  what  I  have  come  to  tell  you  about.  The 
relaxation  of  our  order  must  be  referred  to  the 

Bishop,  and  with  your  support There  is  the 

bell,  now  I  must  fly.  I  will  tell  you  more  when  I 
come  to  confession." 

There  was  enough,  even  in  the  very  subdued  ac- 
count which  Sister  Winifred  gave  of  her  conversa- 
tion with  the  priest,  to  frighten  Mother  Philippa. 
She  thought  Sister  Winifred  had  gone  too  far,  and 
that  Father  Daly  was  too  venturesome.  But  Sister 
Winifred  quieted  her  by  saying  that  her  proposal 
did  not  go  any  further  than  to  submit  the  entire 
matter  to  the  Bishop,  and  Mother  Philippa  said,  "  I 
will  agree  to  anything  that  the  Bishop  says." 

Sister  Winifred's  alert  eyes  were  always  smiling; 
she  was  always  thinking,  and  her  thoughts  could 
very  nearly  be  read  in  her  eyes.  She  was  thinking 
now  of  her  confession ;  she  was  determined  to  stay 
ten  minutes  in  the  confessional ;  for  if  she  were  to 
stay  ten  minutes,  the  length  of  her  confession  could 
not  fail  to  reach  the  ears  of  the  Prioress,  and  this 
would  bring  matters  to  a  crisis.  By  remaining  ten 
minutes  in  the  confessional  she  would  challenge  the 
Prioress's  spiritual  authority,  and  in  return  for 
this  Father  Daly  would  use  his  influence  with  the 
Bishop  to  induce  the  Prioress  to  relax  the  rule  of  the 
community. 

So  before  slipping  into  the  confessional  she  pur- 
posely loitered  a  moment,  and  that  in  itself  struck 

19 


290  SISTEK    TEEESA 

the  Prioress,  who  had  just  entered  the  chapel,  as 
peculiar.  For  the  moment  she  did  not  think  of  it 
further,  having  her  prayers  to  say;  but  at  the  end 
of  five  minutes  she  began  to  grow  impatient,  and  at 
the  end  of  ten  minutes  she  felt  that  her  authority 
had  been  set  aside.  Fifteen  minutes  passed,  and 
then  the  Prioress  resisted  with  difficulty  the  tempta- 
tion to  go  into  the  confessional  and  order  Sister, 
Winifred  out  of  it. 

The  next  penitent  was  the  Prioress  herself,  and 
Father  Daly  heard  her  confession  in  alarm,  wonder- 
ing if  she  had  been  in  the  chapel  all  the  while. 

"  It  is  hard  indeed,  dear  Mother,  if  one  is  not 
even  allowed  to  confess  in  peace,"  Sister  Winifred 
answered,  and  she  tossed  her  head  somewhat  defi- 
antly. 

"  All  the  hopes  of  my  life  are  at  an  end,"  the 
Prioress  said  to  Mother  Hilda.  "  Everyone  is  in 
rebellion  against  me,  and  this  branch  of  our  order 
itself  is  about  to  disappear.  I  feel  sure  that  the 
Bishop  will  decide  against  us,  he  will  go  with  the 
majority — I  think  there  is  a  majority  against  us, 
and  what  can  we  do  with  this  school  ?  Sister  Wini- 
fred will  have  to  manage  it  herself ;  I  will  resign. 
It  is  hard,  indeed,  that  this  should  happen  after 
so  many  years  of  struggle,  and  after  redeeming 
the  convent  from  its  debts — to  be  divided  in  the 
end." 

Mother  Hilda  did  not  answer.  It  seemed  to  her 
that  the  Keverend  Mother  had   read  the  future 


SISTER    TERESA  291 

aright.    But  accident,  or  what  seems  to  us  accident, 
overthrows  the  best  imagined  theories. 

Next  Sunday  Father  Daly  had  taken  for  his  text, 
why  he  never  knew — accident  had  apparently 
guided  him  to  do  it — the  apostolic  injunction  to 
work  good  to  all  men,  and  especially  to  all  those  of 
the  household  of  faith,  that  prayer  does  not  fulfil 
the  whole  duty  of  man  towards  God,  that  work  holds 
an  especial  place  in  the  course  laid  down  for  man's 
redemption.  Father  Daly  usually  spoke  with  diffi- 
culty; his  ideas  were  generally  confused,  and  his 
sentences  involved  and  very  often  imperfect.  On 
this  day  he  spoke  like  one  who  is  inspired.  He  had 
foreseen  the  danger  that  lay  before  him  in  the  am- 
plification of  the  text  he  had  chosen,  but  it  seemed 
as  if  he  could  not  stay  his  words ;  even  the  sight  of 
the  wax-like  face  of  the  Prioress  could  not  stay  his 
ideas  on  the  subject  of  work.  The  words  sprang 
to  his  lips,  and  he  said  that  he  often  thought  that  in 
their  convent  they  were  apt  to  overlook  the  neces- 
sity of  work.  Theirs  was  a  life  of  prayer ;  but  was 
that  incompatible  with  some  measure  of  active 
charity  ?  The  terrible  words  forced  their  way,  and 
he  felt  himself  like  a  leaf  in  the  current  of  inspira- 
tion. He  heard  himself  say  that  they  did  not  visit 
the  sick  and  poor.  He  heard  himself  say  that  he 
often  wondered  how  they  could  fill  their  days.  To 
say  this  implied  that  the  community  lived  in  the  sin 
of  idleness,  and  the  cool  chapel  seemed  suddenly 
to  grow  hot,  a  dryness  came  into  his  throat,  and  he 


292  SISTER    TERESA 

heard  the  nuns  coughing  in  the  silence.  The  sun- 
light seemed  to  fade,  and  he  began  to  see  the  bowed 
heads  as  through  a  mist.  He  began  to  observe  them, 
and  it  seemed  to  him  that  every  nun  instinctively 
drew  herself  up,  and  he  waited,  thinking  that  one  of 
them,  the  Prioress — no,  she  was  too  proud,  Mother 
Hilda,  perhaps — would  get  up  from  her  stall  and 
leave  the  chapel,  but  no  one  moved,  and  he  mopped 
his  forehead  with  his  handkerchief  and  went  on. 
lie  spoke  of  the  monetary  difficulties  of  the  convent, 
and  he  mentioned  that  he  knew  these  very  well, 
though  he  had  not  been  honoured  with  their  confi- 
dences in  this  matter.  He  said  he  might  have  been 
tempted,  if  they  had  honoured  him  with  their  con- 
fidence in  this  matter,  to  suggest  they  should  start  a 
school  for  young  ladies,  for  which  the  convent 
offered  exceptional  advantages.  A  school  seemed  to 
him  a  more  Christian  remedy  than  the  unliturgical 
musical  experiments  they  had  been  indulging  in. 
He  said  he  had  no  belief  in  attracting  people  to 
church  by  turning  the  service  into  a  concert,  and 
then  paused,  frightened  at  his  very  own  indiscre- 
tion. It  was  a  terrible  moment,  and  he  added  hur- 
riedly that  he  hoped  they  would  reflect  on  this  mat- 
ter, and  try  to  remember  he  was  always  at  their 
service  and  prepared  to  give  them  the  best  advice. 

When  Mass  was  over,  the  nuns  hung  about  the 
cloister  whispering  in  little  groups,  forgetful  of  the 
rule.  The  supporters  of  the  Prioress  could  not 
hide  their  indignation  at  the  impertinence  of  the 


SISTER    TEEESA  293 

priest  daring  to  insult  the  community,  and  the  most 
ardent  supporters  of  the  school  felt  that  he  had  gone 
too  far. 

Sister  Winifred  walked  about  aimlessly,  in  ter- 
ror lest  she  should  be  sent  for  by  the  Prioress. 
Mother  Philippa  avoided  her.  The  greatest  anxiety 
was  shown  for  the  health  of  the  Prioress ;  the  nuns 
remembered  her  weak  heart  and  the  strain  that  had 
been  put  upon  her.  Might  not  the  Prioress  be  in 
need  of  help  ?  Was  it  not  their  duty  to  go  to  her  ? 
The  infirmarian  fetched  some  sal  volatile  from  her 
cupboard,  but  no  one,  not  even  Mother  Hilda,  had 
courage  to  knock  at  the  Prioress's  door.  The  ten- 
sion of  the  morning  was  drawn  out  to  an  extreme, 
and  when  the  bell  rang  summoning  them  in  to  din- 
ner, the  nuns  scarcely  knew  whether  they  ought  to 
eat  their  meal  or  not.  Suddenly  the  door  opened, 
and  the  Prioress  appeared  in  all  her  usual  calmness: 
She  took  no  one  into  her  confidence;  she  told  no 
one  what  she  had  done,  not  even  Mother  Hilda. 
But  that  night  a  firmly  worded  letter  went  to  the 
Bishop,  and  before  a  month  was  over  Eather  Daly 
was  transferred  to  another  parish. 


XXXI 

It  was  the  hour  of  evening  meditation,  and  the 
nuns  were  in  choir,  all  a-row,  aslant  in  their  stalls, 
and  so  still  were  they  all,  and  so  rigid  their  atti- 
tudes, that  they  would  seem  to  a  spectator  like  a 
piece  of  medieval  wood-carving.  One  by  one  the 
books  had  been  laid  aside.  Each  nun  held  her  book 
on  her  knee,  the  first  finger  of  the  right  hand  be- 
tween the  leaves  to  keep  the  place,  so  that  she  could 
turn  in  her  need  to  the  passage  which  had  inspired 
her  meditation. 

In  a  convent  where  circumstance  is  unchanging 
and  no  interest  is  allowed  in  external  things,  the 
government  of  thought  becomes  a  science,  and  Eve- 
lyn had  seen  that  she  must  acquire  this  science. 
If  the  subject  of  the  meditation  were  the  cross  she 
must  learn  to  think  of  the  cross  and  of  things  im- 
mediately related  to  the  cross  for  half  an  hour 
without  allowing  her  thoughts  to  wander.  But  this 
was  impossible  to  her.  She  could  not  control  her 
thoughts  for  more  than  a  few  minutes,  if  for  that ; 
and  a  few  minutes'  meditation  exhausted  her  more 
than  an  hour's  dusting  or  sweeping.  Yet  there  were 
nuns  who  could,  it  was  said,  meditate  for  an  hour. 
Evelyn  had  determined  to  excel.  She  had  addressed 
herself  to  Mother  Hilda,  who  had  put  the  exercises 
of  St.  Ignatius  into  her  hands,  and  she  had  in 
294 


SISTER    TERESA  295 

company  of  the  novices  received  instruction  in  his 
method.  But  Eveljm  could  do  nothing  by  method. 
Her  piety,  like  her  acting,  was  the  impulse  of  the 
moment,  and  she  had  told  Mother  Hilda  that  she 
would  never  be  able  to  compose  time  and  space, 
nor  would  she  ever  be  able  to  gather  up  the  spiritual 
bouquet  at  the  close  with  any  satisfaction  to  her- 
self. 

"  My  dear  child,"  Mother  Hilda  had  answered, 
"  no  sooner  do  you  find  that  you  can  toddle  a  little 
way  than  you  want  to  run.  It  requires  years  of 
practice." 

But  Evelyn  desired  a  greater  proficiency  than  she 
had  admitted  to  Mother  Hilda,  and  after  a  moment's 
hesitation  she  had  answered, — 

"  But  surely,  dear  Mother,  it  would  be  better  to 
place  one's  self  in  the  presence  of  God  and  stay 
there.  Why  not  dispense  with  active  thought  alto- 
gether? active  thought  only  interferes  with  the 
ecstasy  of  contemplation." 

Mother  Hilda  had  told  her  of  Madame  Guyon, 
and  the  quietist  heresy  which  had  been  denounced 
by  Bossuet  and  condemned  at  Rome.  Evelyn  feared 
heresy  very  little ;  and  Madame  Guyon  became  one 
of  her  heroines.  But  this  sublime  heresy  she  found 
difiicult  in  practice,  and  the  practice  of  it  was  so 
beset  with  perils,  that  she  understood  why  Rome 
had  denounced  it  On  ordinary  days  she  had  failed 
to  keep  her  thoughts  fixed,  and  on  those  special 
days  when  she  forced  herself  into  the  Divine  Pres- 


296  SISTEK    TERESA 

ence  and  stayed  there  till  the  close  of  the  medita- 
tion, her  ecstasy  was  followed  by  lassitude  and  a 
contempt  for  ordinary  prayer.  Then,  again,  she 
was  an  inveterate  castle-builder;  in  her,  dreaming 
was  a  vice  like  dram-drinking,  and  on  her  knees  she 
could  pass  into  an  enchanted  land  where  all  things 
were  according  to  her  desire.  The  dream  face  was 
as  potent  as  the  real  face,  her  dreams  were  invaded 
by  memories.  ]^ow  that  the  convent  had  become 
a  habit,  the  past  drew  nearer.  The  past  had  come 
to  watch  for  her  at  the  hour  of  meditations.  Just 
now  she  had  waked  up  from  a  dream  of  a  day  when 
she  and  Owen  were  alone  in  a  German  to^vn.  It 
was  a  Gothic  town  through  which  a  sluggish  river 
flowed,  and  its  cathedral  walls  were  full  of  saints. 
She  remembered  two  virgin  saints,  but  these  were 
in  the  museum,  on  either  side  of  a  doorway.  Their 
thin,  spiritual  faces  were  raised,  and  about  their 
limbs  their  draperies  fell  in  straight,  thick  folds. 
Her  thoughts  had  not  stayed  with  these  saints ;  they 
had  wandered  on  with  Owen.  They  were  harmless 
thoughts,  and  on  awaking  she  had  murmured  a 
Hail  Mary,  for  her  rule  was  to  say  a  prayer  when- 
ever Owen's  or  Ulick's  face  rose  up  in  her  mind. 
And  her  prayer  finished,  she  returned  to  the  sub- 
ject of  meditation.  But  the  folds  of  the  habits  dis- 
tracted her  attention ;  she  noticed  Veronica's  eyes ; 
they  were  wondering  eyes,  and  she  wondered  which 
of  the  nuns  were  thinking  most  intimately  of  God. 
One  cannot  always  be  exalted,  she  thought;    it  is 


SISTER    TERESA  297 

only  by  working  at  piety  just  as  one  works  at  art, 
that  one  prepares  one's  self  for  the  great  moments 
of  inspiration.  God  is  scattering  the  seed  always, 
but  it  is  only  in  those  hearts  which  are  prepared 
to  receive  it  that  it  flowers.  The  poet  must  write 
verses  every  day,  the  singer  must  sing  every  day, 
and  the  nun  must  pray  every  day,  so  that  they  may 
be  inspired  one  day  in  the  seven.  But  was  this 
true  of  everyone?  She  remembered  that  Madame 
Savelli  had  said  she  was  an  exception  to  this  rule, 
that  she  was  one  of  the  fortunate  ones  from  whom 
the  burden  of  work  had  been  almost  lifted,  and  she 
felt  that  what  was  true  of  her  art  was  true  of  her 
religion.  Just  as  there  were  times  when  she  could 
hardly  sing  at  all,  there  were  times  when  she  could 
hardly  pray  at  all,  and  she  had  entered  upon  one 
of  these  barren  periods.  For  the  last  few  days  she 
had  been  depressed  and  restless,  and  all  the  little 
external  pieties  of  the  convent  had  jarred.  The 
convent  was  the  same  as  it  had  always  been — they 
had  always  talked  about  vestments  and  prelates  dur- 
ing recreation,  and  there  had  always  been  little 
wranglings  about  who  was  to  have  the  candles  for 
her  saint  and  who  was  not.  But  these  things  had 
not  jarred  so  much  as  they  had  done  in  the  last 
three  days,  except,  perhaps,  during  the  last  month 
of  so  of  her  postulancy,  before  she  had  been  sum- 
moned to  Rome  to  see  her  father  die.  Since  then 
she  had  noticed  the  external  convent  hardly  at  all. 
She  had  lived  in  an  idea,  and  all  the  little  dis- 


298  SISTER    TERESA 

comforts  of  conventual  life  and  its  trivialities  had 
hardly  been  perceived.  Long,  long  ago  Veronica 
had  said  to  her  that  she  could  think  of  no  fate  more 
terrible  than  to  live  in  a  convent  without  a  vocation. 
She  had  forgotten  that  Veronica  had  ever  said  this, 
but  now  it  had  been  flashed  back  upon  her  out  of 
a  long  past — out  of  four  years,  and  yet  these  years 
had  seemed  like  a  single  minute.  She  could  think 
of  nothing  so  like  as  these  convent  days ;  she  thought 
of  eggs  and  of  leaves  and  of  sheep,  and  of  all  things 
that  are  supposed  to  be  alike,  but  none  seemed  to 
her  so  alike  as  these  convent  days. 

Suddenly  she  remembered  the  day  she  had  seen 
the  convent  for  the  first  time.  She  had  driven 
Monsignor  and  Father  Daly  there  in  her  carriage. 
Ah!  those  chestnut  horses,  what  had  happened  to 
them  ?  were  they  dead  ?  Maybe  they  were  drawing 
cabs.  A  few  days  later  she  had  gone  to  confession 
to  Monsignor,  and  to  escape  from  her  lovers  she 
had  returned  to  the  convent  for  a  retreat.  She 
remembered  the  drive  back  to  London,  and  how  she 
had  found  Owen  Asher  waiting  for  her  in  the  Park 
Lane  drawing-room.  How  long  ago  all  that  seemed 
now,  and  how  strange  that  she  should  remember 
it.  She,  a  nun,  sitting  in  the  choir,  her  book  upon 
her  knees.  What  strange  romance  of  destiny  had 
brought  her  here  ?  She  saw  that  afternoon  in  Park 
Lane  as  one  sees  a  sail  blotted  on  the  horizon — the 
very  mood  in  which  she  had  nearly  yielded  to  Owen. 
She  was  sure  she  would  have  yielded  if  he  had  per- 


SISTER    TERESA  299 

sisted,  but  he  had  refrained.  The  convent,  she  sup- 
posed, was  still  in  her  eyes.  The  prayers  of  the 
nuns  had  restrained  him — could  it  have  been  that  ? 
And  then  she  remembered  one  long  afternoon  in 
the  Park  with  Ulick.  They  had  stood  a  long  while 
looking  at  the  spire  of  Kensington  Church,  and  as 
they  walked  home  in  the  twilight  he  had  asked  her 
to  marry  him,  and  she  had  almost  consented.  He 
had  tried  to  overrule  her  will  with  his,  and  she  had 
promised  to  meet  him  at  Victoria.  They  were  to 
have  gone  to  Dulwich  together  to  her  father ;  they 
were  to  have  been  married  at  once,  so  that  there 
could  be  no  turning  back.  But  while  sitting  by  the 
fire  after  dinner,  thinking  every  moment  she  must 
get  up  to  go  to  meet  him  at  Victoria,  she  had  been 
overcome.  Kever  had  her  will  been  so  completely 
overcome.  She  had  not  been  able  to  get  up  from 
her  chair.  She  remembered  putting  the  moment  off 
from  five  minutes  to  five  minutes,  and  her  strange 
dreams.  When  she  awoke  Merat  was  by  her.  She 
had  come  to  ask  her  if  she  had  any  letters  for  the 
post,  and  to  tell  her  that  on  the  morrow  her  Cousin 
Sophie  was  to  take  her  vows.  They  had  gone  to- 
gether to  the  convent,  and  she  remembered  the  Car- 
melite nun  whom  she  had  seen  afterwards  at  the 
grating.  A  few  days  after  she  had  found  the  Wim- 
bledon convent  starving,  and  had  arranged  a  con- 
cert tour  in  order  to  get  a  little  money  for  them. 
It  had  been  a  success  until  she  had  gone  to  stay  at 
Thornton  Grange.  Lady  Ascot,  where  was  she? 
Owen  had  made  love  to  her  the  whole  evening,  and 


300  SISTEK    TERESA 

she  had  nearly  left  her  room  to  go  to  his;  but  as 
she  was  about  to  go  she  had  heard  voices  singing  the 
Veni  Creator,  and  the  hymn  had  brought  appease- 
ment to  her  senses.  She  had  fallen  asleep.  The 
next  morning  she  had  left  Thornton  Grange,  and 
abandoned  her  tour. 

She  thought  of  the  year  she  had  lived  in  Bays- 
water,  looking  after  Patrick  Sullivan  and  his  like, 
and  she  remembered  how  she  had  met  Owen  in  the 
slum.  He  had  tried  to  persuade  her  that  she  must 
not  leave  her  father,  however  great  the  necessities  of 
the  nuns  might  be.  He  had  offered  to  bet  that  Mon- 
signor  would  say  the  same,  and  Monsignor  had 
taken  Owen's  view  of  her  duty;  and  she  agreed  to 
abandon  the  convent  to  its  fate,  but  how  vain  her 
resolution  had  been.  Her  father  had  been  sum- 
moned to  Rome,  and  she  had  gone  to  live  in  the 
convent  for  three  months,  until  he  was  settled  in 
Rome  and  had  found  a  house  for  her  to  live  in.  At 
the  end  of  a  few  months,  when  she  thought  she  would 
have  to  leave  the  convent  and  return  to  her  father, 
when  she  wished  to  leave  it,  when  she  was  weary 
of  it,  a  letter  had  come  from  Monsignor  saying  her 
father  was  ill,  and  she  had  gone  to  Rome  to  see  him 
die.  But  notwithstanding  the  break  in  her  postu- 
lancy,  the  Bishop  had  given  his  consent  to  her 
clothing.  .  .  .  She  paused,  abashed  at  finding  so 
much  design  in  her  life — all  incoherences  vanished. 
She  thought  of  a  fish  swimming  in  front  of  a  net. 
At  first  the  net  is  so  far  away  that  the  fish  does  not 
perceive  it,  then  gradually  the  meshes  drift  nearer, 


SISTER    TERESA  301 

and  the  fish  perceives  that  it  narrows  to  a  thin  neck 
from  which  there  is  no  escape.  .  .  .  Her  life 
seemed  to  have  been  ordained  from  the  beginning; 
she  seemed  to  have  been  created  for  a  special  pur- 
pose. 

She  used  to  think  that  she  was  deficient  in  will, 
and  then  that  she  had  a  great  deal  of  will,  for  she 
resisted  all  the  pressure  that  the  world  could  bring 
against  her.  There  was  Owen's  love  and  his  wealth, 
and  Ulick  with  a  different  spirituality  from  that  of 
the  convent,  and  there  were  all  the  innumerable 
influences — the  influence  of  Louise  and  Lady  Ascot, 
and  other  influences  half  forgotten  and  half  remem- 
bered, and  all  had  proved  unavailing.  She  had 
come  to  the  conclusion  she  had  an  exceptionally 
strong  will,  and  now  it  seemed  to  her  that  she  had 
neither  a  feeble  will  nor  a  strong  will,  but  had  been 
created  to  do  a  certain  work,  and  her  life  seemed 
to  her  like  a  long  skein.  A  great  deal  of  the  skein 
was  already  unwound,  and  was  the  end  of  the  skein 
the  redemption  of  the  convent  from  debt  ?  Was  it 
true  that  God  managed  our  affairs,  even  in  such 
small  particulars  as  the  financial  difficulties  of  a 
convent  ?  She  had  sometimes  wondered  at  her  own 
disinterestedness,  but  to  redeem  the  convent  from 
debt  it  was  necessary  that  someone  should  be  su- 
premely disinterested. 

The  nuns  got  up  and  the  procession  left  the 
chapel,  and  during  recreation  she  walked  with  the 
Reverend  Mother,  speaking  very  little,  unable  to 
think  because  of  the  caressing  touch  of  the  air  upon 


302  SISTEE    TEEESA 

her  cheek,  excited  bj  the  colour  of  the  border  that 
had  begun  to  light  up,  and  stirred  into  sympathy 
with  the  brook  that  babbled  through  the  underwoods 
on  its  way  to  the  river.  Eemembrance  of  Owen  and 
Ulick  flashed  through  her  mind,  and  no  sooner  had 
she  put  one  set  of  memories  aside  than  another 
arose.  Again  and  again  she  caught  herself  thinking 
of  her  lovers,  wondering  if  any  one  of  them  would 
have  inspired  her  with  the  love  which  she  now  felt 
herself  capable  of  giving.  She  had  never  really 
loved — not  Owen,  not  Ulick,  though  she  had  loved 
Ulick  better.  The  thousand  and  one  distractions 
of  her  life  at  that  time  had  prevented  her  loving 
then  as  she  could  love  now.  It  seemed  to  her  that 
she  had  learnt  to  love ;  but  she  did  not  think  a  man 
could  love  a  nun.  Yet  who  could  love  so  well  as  a 
nun  ? 

It  seemed  to  her  she  must  have  been  thinking  a 
long  while;  and  a  few  days  after  she  caught  her- 
self questioning  the  usefulness  of  their  lives  in  this 
convent,  nor  could  she  deny  to  herself  that  she  sym- 
pathised with  the  schismatics  who  had  wished  to 
turn  the  contemplative  into  an  active  order.  Would 
an  active  order  satisfy  her  ?  She  thought  not.  She 
was  afraid  she  desired  the  personal  life — the  life 
she  had  told  Monsignor  was  dead  to  her ;  to  attain 
that  she  would  have  to  leave  the  convent,  and  the 
very  thought  of  breaking  her  holy  vows  filled  her 
with  terror.  But  when  she  lay  down  to  sleep  the 
thought  of  the  personal  came  upon  her  between 
sleeping  and  waking.    If  she  were  to  leave  the  con- 


SISTER    TERESA  303 

vent,  what  would  she  do?  A  nun  who  had  broken 
her  vows  would  always  be  an  anomaly.  She  would 
be  out  of  place  wherever  she  went.  And  sitting  up 
in  her  bed,  seeing  her  cell  in  the  light  of  the  moon, 
she  remembered  how  she  had  written  to  Monsignor 
telling  him  that  when  she  left  the  convent  she  pro- 
posed to  take  a  cottage  in  the  country  with  a  large 
garden,  and  that  she  would  have  ^ve  or  six  little 
cripple  boys  to  live  with  her.  If  her  father  had  not 
died  she  would  have  done  this  somewhere  near 
Rome,  or  in  England — somewhere  within  easy  reach 
of  her  father.  But  God  had  designed  her  for 
another  purpose,  and  she  must  thank  him  that  she 
had  been  allowed  to  accomplish  that  purpose,  or 
nearly.  She  wished  that  it  had  not  been  accom- 
plished so  soon,  for  until  it  was  accomplished  she 
had  something  to  live  for.  Though  she  might  not 
question  the  will  of  God,  she  might  pray  that  he 
would  be  kind  to  her,  and  treat  her  very  gently  like 
one  who  has  done  her  work  and  has  earned  some 
peaceful  years.  She  hoped  he  would  not  allow  her 
to  be  tempted  again  by  the  flesh;  that  he  would 
take  out  of  her  mind  all  thoughts  of  the  men  she 
had  known  and  of  the  men  she  had  sinned  with. 

The  sin  of  fornication — that  terrible  sin — ^had 
always  been  her  trouble,  and  in  the  years  she  would 
have  to  live  in  the  convent  now,  doing  nothing, 
having  accomplished  his  work,  she  prayed  that  he 
would  take  pity  on  her,  and  never  allow  her  to  be 
tempted  again. 


XXXII 

She  was  so  weary  of  singing  Gounod's  "  Ave 
Maria"  that  she  had  intentionally  accentuated  the 
vulgarity  of  the  melody,  and  wondered  if  the  cari- 
cature had  been  noticed.  ^^  The  more  vulgarly  it 
is  sung,  the  more  money  it  draws."  Smiling  at  the 
theatrical  phrase  that  had  arisen  unexpectedly  to 
her  lips,  she  went  into  the  garden.  There  she  heard 
that  she  had  never  sung  so  well ;  all  the  nuns  seemed 
to  agree  with  Sister  Elizabeth,  and  Evelyn  looked 
from  face  to  face,  not  finding  the  slightest  percep- 
tion of  the  truth  in  any  one.  Suddenly  they  seemed 
divided  from  her,  and  wondering  what  her  father 
would  have  said  if  he  had  lived  to  hear  her  sing 
as  she  had  sung  that  afternoon,  she  walked  aside, 
pretending  an  interest  in  the  flowers.  It  was  then 
that  the  Prioress  joined  them  in  the  garden,  and  she 
told  Evelyn  that  a  lady  had  been  so  moved  by  the 
beauty  of  her  singing  that  she  had  promised  to  send 
them  a  cheque  for  fifty  pounds. 

'^  So  you  see,  God  has  given  you  strength  to  ac- 
complish what  you  intended  to  accomplish.  ^N'ow 
we  are  free  from  debt." 

The  sun  was  setting ;  the  earth  drew  a  calm  deep 
breath  under  the  lovely  sky,  and  Evelyn's  soul  di- 
lated and  was  drawn  into  mysterious  sympathy  with 
304 


SISTEK    TERESA  305 

the  flowering  earth.  ''  How  beautifully  the  evening 
wears  its  sacramental  air/'  she  said,  and  she  lifted 
the  cup  of  a  lily  as  she  would  lift  a  sleeping  child 
from  its  cradle,  and  wondered  why  a  prayer  should 
be  more  pleasing  to  God  than  simple  attendance 
on  this  flower.  And  thinking  of  the  flower  she 
walked  with  the  Prioress  to  the  end  of  the  garden. 
There  were  many  visitors  in  the  garden  that  day, 
and  it  seemed  to  these  two  nuns  that  they  might 
leave  their  visitors  to  be  entertained  by  Sister  Je- 
rome and  Sister  Winifred  for  a  little  while  longer. 
They  might  do  this  without  impropriety ;  and  they 
wandered  as  far  as  the  fish  pond,  and  stood  listening 
to  the  stream,  loath  to  return  to  the  ladies,  who 
wished  to  compliment  Evelyn  on  having  freed  the 
convent  from  debt. 

"  I'm  afraid  we  must  go  back,  Teresa." 

"  Dear  Mother  Jerome  is  amusing  them.  I  heard 
her  telling  them  that  St.  Joseph's  statue  had  to  go 
up  to  town  to  get  a  new  coat  of  paint,  and  that  the 
Virgin  had  to  go  with  him  to  be  mended.'^ 

The  Prioress  smiled,  and  at  that  moment  Sister 
Jerome  appeared  on  the  pathway,  and  they  had  not 
walked  many  yards  when  they  met  the  lady  who  had 
sent  Sister  Jerome  to  fetch  them. 

'^  I  remember  hearing  you  sing  at  Covent  Gar- 
den," said  the  effusive  woman. 

"  You  must  not  speak  to  me  of  my  unregenerate 
days,"  and  then,  becoming  serious,  she  said,  "  All 
that  is  far  away." 

20 


806  SISTER    TERESA 

"  My  favourite  piece  of  music  is  that  *  Ave 
Maria/  and  I  did  not  know  it  was  so  beautiful  till 
I  heard  it  sung  to-day.  Are  you  not  very  proud, 
Sister  Teresa,  of  being  able  to  get  so  much  money 
out  of  the  public  V^ 

"  I  take  very  little  interest  in  my  singing.  I 
thought  I  had  sung  very  badly  this  afternoon — in 
fact,  I  know  I  did,  but  it  seemed  to  please." 

The  Prioress  continued  the  conversation,  and 
Evelyn  regretted  she  had  been  told  that  the  last 
portion  of  the  debt  had  been  paid.  Henceforth 
there  was  nothing  to  strive  for,  nothing  to  hope 
for,  and  every  day  would  be  the  fellow  of  the  same 
as  the  day  before.  The  idea  of  the  school  seemed 
to  have  gone  with  Father  Daly,  and  the  schism 
which  seemed  too  terrible  at  the  time  now  seemed 
better  than  the  noiseless  monotony  which  was  to 
be  the  future.  Henceforth  nothing  would  happen 
to  break  the  peace  of  their  lives,  and  she  saw  the 
days  and  nights  folding  and  unfolding  like  heavy 
curtains.  Her  life  would  be  like  Sister  Bridget's, 
and  she  thought  of  what  Sister  Bridget's  life  had 
been.  She  had  been  more  than  forty  years  in  this 
convent;  the  thirtieth  of  this  month  would  be 
the  fortieth  anniversary  of  her  vows,  and  Evelyn 
remembered  that  she  too  might  live  till  she  was 
seventy.  With  the  exception  of  Mother  Lawrence, 
who  was  now  completely  bedridden,  Bridget  was 
the  oldest  member  of  the  community.  Yet  she  con- 
tinued to  scrub,  and  to  sweep,  and  to  carry  up  coala 


SISTEK    TERESA  307 

and  water  as  regularly  as  she  had  done  these  last 
forty  years.  Everyone  loved  Sister  Bridget's  funny 
old  face,  and  it  was  felt  that  something  ought  to  be 
done  to  commemorate  the  anniversary  of  her  vows. 

"  I  should  like  to  see  her  on  an  elephant,  riding 
round  the  garden ;  what  a  spree  it  would  be,"  said 
Sister  Jerome. 

The  words  were  hardly  out  of  her  mouth  when 
she  regretted  them,  foreseeing  allusions  to  ele- 
phants till  the  end  of  her  days ;  for  Sister  Jerome 
often  said  foolish  things,  and  was  greatly  quizzed 
for  them.  Of  course  she  knew  they  could  not  get 
an  elephant.  She  knew  too  that  they  would  not 
be  able  to  control  an  elephant  if  they  did  get  one. 
But  this  time  it  seemed  as  if  her  foolish  remark 
were  going  to  escape  ridicule.  Sister  Agatha  said 
she  did  not  see  why  they  should  not  make  an  ele- 
phant, and  in  a  moment  everyone  was  listening. 
Sister  Agatha's  notion  was  to  take  the  long  table 
from  the  library  and  pile  it  up  with  cushions,  stuff- 
ing it,  as  nearly  as  possible,  into  the  shape  of  an 
elephant. 

"  That  is  exactly  as  I  had  intended,"  said  Sister 
Jerome. 

And  the  creation  of  the  beast  was  accomplished 
in  the  novitiate,  no  one  being  allowed  to  see  it 
except  the  Reverend  Mother.  The  great  difficulty 
was  to  find  beads  large  enough  for  the  eyes,  and  it 
threatened  to  frustrate  the  making  of  their  beast. 
The  latest  postulant  suggested  that  perhaps  the  but- 


308  SISTEE    TERESA 

tons  oif  lier  jacket  Avould  do.  They  were  just  the 
thing,  and  the  legs  of  the  beast  were  most  natural 
and  life-like;    it  had  even  a  tail. 

As  no  one  out  of  the  novitiate  had  seen  this  very 
fine  beast,  the  convent  was  on  tiptoe  with  excite- 
ment, and  when,  at  the  conclusion  of  dinner,  the 
elephant  was  wheeled  into  the  refectory,  everyone 
clapped  her  hands,  and  there  were  screams  of  de- 
light. Then  the  saddle  was  brought  in  and  attached 
by  blue  ribbons.  Sister  Bridget,  who  did  not  seem 
quite  sure  that  the  elephant  was  not  alive,  was  lifted 
on  to  it,  and  held  there,  and  wheeled  in  triumph 
round  the  refectory.  The  nuns  clapped  their  hands, 
and  rushed  after  the  beast,  pushing  it  a  little  way, 
beseeching  Sister  Bridget  not  to  get  off  but  to  allow 
herself  to  be  drawn  once  more  round  the  room. 
Flowers  were  fetched  and  scattered.  There  was 
no  reason  why  EveljTi  should  disapprove,  nor  did 
she  disapprove.  She  tried  to  remember  that  she  had 
often  seen  grown-up  people  acting  quite  as  child- 
ishly, nevertheless  she  asked, — 

^^  Am  I  going  to  spend  the  whole  of  my  life  with 
these  women  who  are  no  beter  than  little  children  ?" 

The  novices  rushed  about  screaming  with  delight, 
and  the  professed  too — the  older  the  nuns  were 
the  more  eagerly  did  they  enter  into  the  sport,  and 
in  the  midst  of  a  dispute  as  to  who  was  to  ride  it 
next  Evelyn  stole  away  into  the  garden. 

The  parched  ground  was  cracking,  and,  filled  with 
pity  for  the  thirsting  plants,  she  filled  a  can  with 


SISTER    TERESA  309 

water,  and  shed  a  refreshing  sprinkle  over  them,  not 
drowning  them  under  a  torrent  as  Sister  Elizabeth 
did  when  she  helped  her  in  the  garden.  "  But  they 
do  not  like  this  cold  well  water,"  she  said,  and  she 
looked  at  the  cloudless  sky  for  a  cloud.  A  cloud  had 
passed  some  few  minutes  ago,  but  it  was  high  up  in 
the  sky,  and  it  had  flown  away.  "  The  flowers  would 
give  a  great  deal  for  three  hours  of  fine,  small, 
dense  rain.  How  they  would  enjoy  it,"  and  stand- 
ing with  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  dusty  horizon,  she 
began  to  sing  some  of  Isolde's  music. 

It  was  five  years  since  she  had  sung  it,  and  in  five 
years  she  had  forgotten  nearly  all  of  it.  Other  ideas 
had  absorbed  her.  Yet  it  was  in  quest  of  this  idea 
that  she  had  gone  to  Ireland.  She  remembered 
Chapelizod,  a  few  cottages,  a  miserable  inn,  and  a 
dirty  river.  But  Tristan  and  Isolde  had  walked 
together  there.  Afterward  she  had  gone  with  Ulick 
to  see  some  Druid  altars,  and  sitting  on  the  hill 
above  the  altars,  they  had  talked  of  the  primal 
mysteries,  of  gods,  demi-gods  and  great  heroes. 

The  childish  gaiety  of  the  nuns  streamed  through 
the  windows  into  the  garden. 

"  Can  they  still  be  dragging  that  elephant  about  ?" 

She  got  up  abruptly  like  one  moved  by  a  sudden 
intention. 

"  Does  another  quest  lie  before  me."  She  tried 
to  stifle  the  thought,  but  it  cried  across  her  life,  like 
a.  curlew  across  waste  lands. 


XXXIII 

It  seemed  to  her  that  the  server  trudged  to  and 
fro  carrying  the  book  as  if  it  were  a  bundle  of  sticks. 
He  seemed  to  ring  the  bell  stupidly;  the  ritual 
seemed  ridiculous;  and  she  hid  her  face  in  her 
hands  in  order  that  she  might  fix  her  thoughts  on 
the  mystery  of  the  bread  and  wine.  But  she  could 
only  think  of  the  enigma  of  the  stars;  a  vast  cob- 
web spun  into  endless  space;  and  in  such  a  pan- 
theistic mood  she  felt  that  she  dared  not  go  to  the 
sacred  table.  The  priest  waited  a  moment,  thinking 
she  had  forgotten,  and  when  she  went  to  the  Prior- 
esses room  at  the  end  of  the  week  the  Prioress's  first 
words  were, — 

"  My  dear  Teresa,  I  noticed  that  you  did  not 
communicate  once  this  week." 

She  could  only  say  that  an  overwhelming  sense  of 
her  unworthiness  had  obliged  her  abstention.  She 
could  not  bring  herself  to  confess  that  she,  Sister 
Teresa,  a  nun  dedicated  to  perpetual  adoration,  did 
not  believe,  or  had  doubts  regarding  the  actual  pres- 
ence of  God  in  the  sacramental  wafer. 

There  was  a  time,  she  remembered  it  well,  when 

her  communions  alone  marked  the  passage  of  time. 

She  remembered  how  she  used  to  count  the  hours 

which  divided  her  from  God,  how  she  welcomed 

310 


SISTEK    TERESA  311 

sleep,  for  sleep  obliterated  consciousness  of  time. 
And  she  remembered  how  she  used  to  awake  in  the 
morning  thinking  that  the  hour  of  the  Lord  was 
by.  She  used  to  go  to  the  communion  table  with  a 
wonderful  flutter  in  her  breast,  keen  hunger  for  the 
divine  food.  As  she  knelt,  her  head  bov/ed,  she 
was  conscious  only  of  her  soul  and  God ;  she  hardly 
dared  open  her  mouth;  and  as  the  sacrament  dis- 
solved she  was  taken  with  a  great  fear,  for  to  swal- 
low seemed  like  sacrilege,  and  she  covered  her  face 
lest  the  action  of  swallowing  should  be  perceived. 
"When  she  had  swallowed,  the  sense  of  happiness 
and  immortal  union  grew  more  intense ;  her  senses 
seemed  to  consume  one  by  one,  and  she  was  con- 
scious of  an  exquisite  harmony,  in  which  every 
atom  seemed  to  be^t  in  unison  with  another  atom. 
In  those  days  she  used  to  live  in  God,  God  was 
always  about  her,  and  the  sense  of  God's  presence 
enveloped  her,  and  looking  back  upon  that  time  it 
seemed  to  her  that  she  had  been  dead  or  sleeping 
ever  since,  and  it  seemed  as  if  the  thick  besetting 
'dream  of  circumstance  would  never  break  again. 

She  noticed  the  quality  of  the  food  and  the  length 
of  time  in  chapel,  and  every  day  she  found  it  more 
difficult  to  think  of  God,  more  difficult  to  keep  her 
lovers  out  of  her  mind,  and  the  music  that  she  used 
to  sing  for  their  delight.  One  day  she  began  to  play 
the  prelude  to  "  Lohengrin"  from  impulse  and  to  see 
what  an  effect  it  would  have  on  Veronica,  and  when 
she  had  finished,  she  asked  her  for  her  idea  of  it. 


312  SISTEE    TEEES5 

"  It  seemed  to  me/'  she  said,  "  as  if  I  stood 
waiting  on  some  mountain-top,  somewhere  where 
there  is  no  boundary.  The  dawn  seemed  to  be 
breaking,  light  seemed  to  increase,  the  rays  grew 
brighter,  and  my  soul  seemed  to  be  waiting  amid 
the  increasing  light." 

"  Yes,  it  is  that,  Veronica — that  is  a  very  good 
description ;   how  did  you  think  of  it  ?" 

''  I  did  not  think  it.  ...  I  felt  like  that." 

^'  Elsa  sings  a  beautiful  melody  in  the  balcony — 
listen."  After  singing  it  she  said,  "  It  is  as  deep 
as  the  hush  of  the  summer  night.  How  the  voice 
falls  on  the  word  calme/' 

"  Oh,  Sister,  that  music  is  not  like  our  life 
here.  ...  It  is  far  away.  You  used  to  sing  that 
music,  and  yet  you  came  here." 

"  Perhaps  I  came  here  to  escape  from  it,  Veron- 
ica." 

The  prelude  to  "  Tristan"  and  the  "  Forest  Mur- 
murs," and  the  Rhine  journey  could  not  but  trouble 
the  quiet  souls  of  Sister  Elizabeth  and  Sister  Ve- 
ronica, and  Evelyn  knew  that  in  playing  this  music 
to  them  she  was  doing  a  wicked  thing.  But  a 
strange  will  had  taken  possession  of  her  and  she 
had  to  obey  it.  She  stopped  in  the  cloister  to  re- 
member that  she  had  saved  the  convent,  and  now 
she  wished  to  destroy  it.  Was  this  really  so  ?  She 
could  not  believe  it.  Good  heavens !  Why  did  she 
hate  those  nuns?  Was  it  possible  that  she  hated 
them  ?    Did  she  wish  to  destroy  the  peace  of  mind 


SISTER    TERESA  313 

of  her  innocent  companions?  'No,  she  did  not  de- 
sire such  wickedness.  She  could  not  help  herself; 
something  was  behind  her,  and  she  began  to  fear 
she  was  possessed  by  the  devil. 

And  though  she  feared  her  brain  ^vas  going  the 
way  Miss  Dingle's  had  gone,  she  could  not  resist 
the  temptation  to  wear  a  blue  scapular.  And  she 
listened  more  attentively  than  she  ever  did  before 
to  Miss  Dingle's  experiences.  At  last,  unable  to 
bear  her  present  state  of  mind  any  longer,  she  re- 
solved to  consult  the  chaplain. 

"  I  have  come  to  consult  you,  Father,  about  a 
great  many  things ;  if  you  have  finished  with  your 
other  penitents  perhaps  you  may  be  able  to  give  me 
a  little  more  time  than  usual.'' 

He  seemed  to  awake  from  a  pious  lethargy.  The 
new  chaplain  reminded  Evelyn  of  Sister  Cecilia. 

'^  Eather,  I  have  come  to  confess  certain  sins  and 
obtain  forgiveness  for  these  sins.  But  over  and 
above  my  sins  I  have  come  to  consult  you,  and  I 
feel  you  will  be  able  to  give  me  the  advice  I  want." 

It  seemed  to  her  that  she  had  better  begin  by  tell- 
ing him  her  general  attitude  of  mind  towards  the 
convent,  for  she  wished  him  to  understand  that  a 
change  had  come,  whether  transitory  or  permanent 
she  did  not  know.  An  enumeration  of  her  little 
criticisms  of  the  nuns  would  convey  no  true  picture 
of  her  trouble,  and  yet  it  was  all  so  instinct  with 
her  trouole  that  she  felt  she  must  tell  him  that  she 
had  smiled  at  the  excitement  of  the  novices  and  the 


314  SISTEK    TEEESA 

younger  nuns  oyer  the  shrines  in  the  passages  and 
in  the  garden. 

"  I  have  been  lacking  in  humility — that,  I  sup- 
pose, is  what  it  comes  to." 

Fearing  any  inclination  to  extenuate,  she  entered 
into  details,  and  then  her  confession  seemed  to 
her  sillier  and  more  trivial  than  the  pious  fancies 
that  had  excited  her  irony,  and  she  hurried  on,  try- 
ing to  hit  upon  something  definite,  some  less  evan- 
escent emotion,  which  could  be  expressed  by  words. 
If  she  could  say  something  that  the  priest  would 
understand,  something  that  would  help  him  to  di- 
vine the  very  real  trouble  and  unrest  of  soul.  But 
she  could  express  nothing  of  what  she  felt.  The 
fact  that  she  had  emphasised  sentences,  which  even 
caricatured  the  sentiment  of  a  popular  piece  of 
music  did  not  seem  to  him  a  serious  sin;  and  set- 
tling his  cassock  over  his  knees,  he  reminded  her 
that  singing  had  paid  off  the  convent's  debts. 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  she  said,  "  and  that  very  day  a 
lady  was  so  delighted  with  the  '  Ave  Maria'  that 
she  sent  the  last  fifty  pounds  required  to  pay  off 
the  debt." 

"  On  that  very  day !  l^ow  I  will  give  you  abso- 
lution." 

"  But,  Father,  there  is  a  real  burden  on  my  mind, 
and  you  must  have  patience  with  me,  for  my  trouble 
is  very  real,  and  I  want  your  advice." 

Again  the  priest  settled  his  cassock  and  concen- 
trated his  attention. 


SISTER    TERESA  315 

"  I  have  thought  of  men  whom  I  knew  before  I 
entered  the  convent,  whom  I  knew  sinfully.  I 
have  not  been  able  to  keep  their  faces  and  recol- 
lections of  my  sins  out  of  my  mind.  I  do  not  know 
if  you  know  that  I  was  an  opera  singer  before  I 
became  a  nun.  ...  I  thought  that  the  opera  singer 
was  dead  in  me,  but  the  other  day  I  played  some 
of  the  music  I  used  to  sing.  I  don't  know  if  I 
am  deceiving  myself,  but  it  seemed  to  me  that  I 
played  that  music  to  the  nuns  in  order  to  trouble 
their  lives  as  mine  has  been  troubled.  I  can  imagine 
no  sin  more  horrible,  and  I  hope  I  have  not  been 
guilty  of  it." 

The  priest  asked  her  what  music  she  had  played, 
and  when  she  told  him  he  said, — 

"  But  I  do  not  know  any  more  devotional  music 
than  the  prelude  to  ^  Lohengrin,'  and  the  other  music 
you  speak  of  seems  to  me  to  be  entirely  unobjection- 
able. I  have  taken  great  pleasure  in  it  myself — 
the  prelude  to  ^  Parsifal,'  for  instance." 

"  But  I  wish  to  forget  that  music ;  it  is  full  of 
associations  for  me,  and  my  intentions  in  playing 
it  were " 

"  I  do  not  think,  my  daughter,  that  you  are  in  a 
frame  of  mind  to  judge  your  intentions.  We  are 
not  responsible  for  passing  thoughts." 

There  still  remained  her  doubts  regarding  the 
Real  Presence,  and  she  said, — 

"  I  cannot  imagine  anything  more  terrible  than 
to  be  a  nun,  vowed  to  perpetual  adoration,  and  not 


316  SISTEK    TERESA 

to  believe  implicitly  in  the  Real  Presence.  .  .  . 
I  can  imagine  no  more  terrible  fate,  and  that  fate 
may  be  mine — I  was  going  to  say  is  perhaps  mine 
already/' 

"  But,  my  dear  child,  you  do  not  say  that  you  do 
not  believe  in  the  Real  Presence,  and  if  you  do  not 
deny  you  believe." 

"  Does  that  follow,  Father  ?  I  certainly  do  not 
deny.  I  do  not  even  disbelieve,  but  I  fear  my  faith 
in  the  sacrament  is  waning.  Think  what  my  posi- 
tion would  be  in  the  convent  if  such  a  thing  were  to 
happen." 

"  It  can  only  be  that  the  trial  you  are  now  en- 
during has  been  sent  to  test  you,  and  you  must 
pray." 

'"  But,  Father,  I  seem  to  have  lost  control  of  my 
thoughts.  Only  this  morning,  when  you  bent  down 
over  the  altar  to  take  the  sacrament,  trivial  thoughts 
passed  through  my  mind ;  is  it  necessary  that  I 
should  tell  them  to  you  ?" 

"  1^0,  it  is  not  necessary." 

"  They  are  so  vivid  and  near  me,  and  yet  they  do 
not  seem  like  my  thoughts,  and  sometimes  I  fear  to 
turn  my  head  lest  I  should  see  the  devil.  I  have 
almost  come  to  believe  in  him  as  Miss  Dingle  does 
— I  mean  in  his  visible  presence  and  in  his  power 
to  lay  material  hands  on  me.  Think,  then,  what 
it  must  be  to  kneel  before  the  altar !  I  cannot  shake 
this  haunting  spirit  out  of  me.  Kot  only  blasphe- 
mous, but  indecent  thoughts  rise  up  in  my  mind, 


SISTER    TERESA  317 

and  they  are  so  distinct  and  clear  that  I  cannot  but 
think  the  devil  is  whispering  in  my  ear.  I  must 
tell  you  all.  The  moment  I  kneel  to  take  my  watch 
the  voice  begins,  and  the  last  time  I  communi- 
cated .  .  ." 

She  ceased  speaking  and  hid  her  face  in  her 
liands. 

"  There  is  no  reason  why  you  should  recall  these 
painful  visitations." 

"  Yes,  visitations ;  they  can  be  nothing  else.  I 
dare  not  communicate;  you  have  noticed  my  ab- 
stention ?  If  these  thoughts  do  not  cease  I  cannot 
live  in  the  convent — I  cannot  live  in  blasphemy." 

"  Have  you  spoken  to  the  Prioress  on  this  mat- 
ter?" 

"  No." 

The  Prioress  reserved  the  spiritual  guidance  of 
her  nuns  to  herself.  .  .  .  Father  Daly  had  been  dis- 
missed for  interference.  The  Chaplain  reflected. 
He  could  think  of  no  argument  which  would  con- 
vince her  of  the  Real  Presence  in  the  Eucharist. 
His  brain  seemed  a  little  torpid  that  afternoon. 
Had  he  not  better  refer  the  penitent  to  the  Prioress  ? 
On  the  other  hand,  would  it  be  right  to  avoid  the 
responsibility  that  had  come  upon  him.  But  at 
that  moment  an  argument  was  being  revealed  to 
him,  and  he  began,  though  he  knew  he  risked  a 
great  deal,  the  three  minutes,  the  limit  the  Prioress 
allowed  her  nuns  in  the  confessional,  were  over 
long  ago. 


318  SISTER    TERESA 

"  My  dear  child,  your  position  is  very  serious. 
But  God  never  deserts  those  who  do  not  desert 
Him." 

And  while  trying  to  disentangle  an  argument 
wherewith  to  convince  her  of  the  Real  Presence, 
he  spoke  to  her  of  the  sin  of  despair,  the  most  ter- 
rible of  all  sins,  and  the  one  to  be  dreaded  most. 
"  If  we  accept  the  evidence  of  our  senses,"  he  said, 
"  we  would  believe  the  earth  to  be  flat  and  station- 
ary. But  this  conflicts  with  the  evidence  of  our 
senses  regarding  the  rising  and  setting  of  constel- 
lations, and  so  it  is  with  the  mystery  of  Transub- 
stantiation.  If  we  accept  our  immediate  sensation, 
no  change  has  taken  place  during  the  words  of  con- 
secration, and  God  is  not  in  the  sacred  wafer  any 
more  than  He  is  in  any  other  wafer;  but  just  as 
in  astronomy  we  arrive  at  an  absurdity  if  we  do 
not  accept  the  theory  of  the  motion  of  the  earth, 
so  do  we  arrive  at  an  absurdity  in  theology  if  we  do 
not  accept  the  teaching  of  our  holy  Church.  To 
call  into  question  the  Real  Presence  in  the  sacred 
wafer  not  only  calls  into  question  the  trustworthi- 
ness of  the  Church's  teaching,  but  also  the  very 
words  of  Christ,  who  said,  ^  Take  and  eat,  for  this 
is  my  body,'  and  again,  ^  This  is  my  blood  of  the 
'New  Testament,  which  is  shed  for  you  and  for  many 
for  the  remission  of  sins.'  Then  this  doctrine  in  the 
New  Testament  must  be  dismissed  as  a  fable,  for 
did  not  Christ  say,  ^  I  came  not  to  destroy  the  law 
but  to  fulfil  it.'    So  you  see,  to  deny  any  one  article 


SISTEK    TERESA  319 

of  the  faith  involves  a  denial  of  everything,  and  if 
Christ  be  not  God,  and  the  ^N'ew  Testament  a  myth, 
then  all  the  world,  and  all  the  stars,  and  everything 
that  happens  in  life  are  but  a  series  of  chances/^ 

"  Yes,  Father,  yes,  and  it  is  a  great  help  to  me 
to  hear  you;  and  what  you  say  is  quite  true.  I 
used  to  believe  that  this  world  and  human  life  were 
due  to  a  series  of  chances." 

"  And  the  scientific  explanation  failed  to  satisfy 
you.  I  will  give  you  some  books  to  read  on  the  sub- 
ject, and  with  patience  and  prayer  your  doubts  will 
pass  away,  my  dear  child." 

The  priest  then  said  a  little  prayer  with  her,  and 
he  gave  her  absolution  for  any  fault  that  might  be 
hers  in  not  resisting  more  strenuously  the  thoughts 
that  had  come,  against  her  will,  from  a  far  time. 


XXXIV 

One  night  in  her  convent  bed  she  saw  flames 
about  her,  and  she  began  to  remember  the  scene 
— how  it  begins  with  Siegfried's  own  motive,  and 
underneath  it  the  ripple  of  the  Ehinegold. 

The  daj  has  begun;  the  last  rosy  clouds  vanish 
in  light  melodies,  cool  as  the  wind  blowing  out  of 
the  dawn,  and  the  hero  stands  on  the  mountain-top. 
Below  him  the  warrior  woman  sleeps  in  her  war 
gear,  surrounded  by  flames,  and  at  once  is  heard 
the  mysterious  "  Question  to  Fate."  Evelyn's  eyes 
closed,  and  she  dreamed  ^'  The  Love  Spell,"  as  it 
emerges  from  the  orchestra;  and  the  young  hero, 
whose  mother  she  had  rescued,  descended  the  rocks 
to  her  side,  and  amid  enchanting  melodies — "  Love's 
Confusion,"  "  Love's  Kapture,"  and  ^'  Love's  De- 
light"— he  took  her  buckler  and  her  helmet  from 
her,  and  looking  upon  her  breasts,  dreamed  she 
might  unclasp  her  girdle  for  him  in  the  pine  wood 
close  by. 

The  nun  strove  against  the  dream,  but  God 
seemed  to  have  abandoned  her;  and  she  could  not 
resist  the  temptation  of  mortal  lips ;  the  music  over- 
took her  as  a  net  overtakes  the  escaping  fish,  she 

heard  her  vows  die  as  Siegfried's  lips  pressed  hers 
320 


SISTER    TERESA  321 

apart.  The  music  rose  out  of  the  depths  of  the 
orchestra ;  it  ascended  to  the  heights  on  the  violins, 
and  she  heard  the  exultant  chords  expressive  of  her 
rapture  when  she  awakens  to  the  beauty  of  the 
world.  Sitting  up  on  the  rock  where  she  has  lain 
for  so  many  years,  she  asks,  "  Who  is  the  hero  who 
has  awakened  me  V^  and  they  both  sing  the  rapture 
of  the  meeting. 

Siegfried  watches  her  as  the  sun  watches  the 
marvel  of  the  spring.  He  sings  his  wonder  at  her 
beauty,  and  a  pang  of  reciprocal  longing  awakens, 
and  her  delight  is  like  earth's  answer  to  the  sun. 
What  accents  of  courage  and  triumph,  and  amid 
them  her  own  "  justification,"  for  had  she  not  been 
compassionate  to  the  unhappy  parents?  The  im- 
petuous boy  implores  her,  but  in  the  midst  of  her 
desire  she  remembers  she  is  a  goddess,  and  again, 
amid  the  temptation  to  yield  to  the  delight  of  the 
senses,  she  hears  the  theme  of  "  Renunciation."  To 
surrender  to  love  is  to  surrender  her  immortal  life ; 
and  her  elemental  nature  rises  up  like  the  wind; 
and  she  hears  her  sisters  fly  to  her.  But  in  spite 
of  her  endeavour  to  resist  she  turns  her  eyes  to  Sieg- 
fried, and  she  sees  him  leading  her  into  the  fir  wood, 
and  her  senses  sicken  a  little  as  she  thinks  how  she 
may  unclasp  her  girdle  for  his  pleasure  and  for 
hers.  And  amid  the  flutter  and  rapture  of  such 
melodious  phrases  as  "  Love's  Confusion"  and 
"  Love's  Rapture"  the  gods  strive  vainly  for  her 

virginity.     She  turns  to  the  fir  wood,  her  hands 

21 


322  SISTER    TERESA 

fall  to  her  girdle,  but  she  hears  the  theme  of  \  al- 
halla. 

The  nun's  face  grew  pale  in  her  dream,  and  she 
tossed  on  her  bed,  for  she  was  striving  to  remem- 
ber. The  next  part  of  the  scene  seemed  to  elude 
her,  and  she  seems  to  wander  through  long  woods, 
following  some  distant  and  evasive  music  sung  by 
a  bird.  At  last,  coming  to  a  rockj  desert  place, 
"  The  Curse"  is  suddenly  thundered  in  her  ears, 
and  she  remembers  that  death  follows  all  delight. 
But  immediately  peaceful  memories  breathe  in  her 
ears.  Siegfried  is  beside  her,  she  is  enfolded  in 
her  desire  of  him,  though  she  hears  in  the  quivering 
air  some  faint  echo  of  tremulous  annihilation.  She 
listens,  and  the  alluring  dimness  of  the  Valhalla 
motive  overcomes  her,  and  breaking  away  she  fore- 
goes the  fatal  gift  of  love.  But  Siegfried  sings  his 
irresistible  phrase,  his  triumphal  "  Come  what 
May,"  and  the  joy  of  life  is  accepted  amid  the 
tempestuous  beat  of  the  flying  hoofs  of  "  The  Ride," 
the  mysterious  call  of  the  bird ;  and  the  love  themes 
are  repeated,  and  after  them  "  The  Heritage  of  the 
World"  is  heard.  "  Siegfried's  own  Motive"  rises 
out  of  the  depths,  and  the  boy  and  the  maid  exult  in 
a  final  trill. 

The  nun's  eyes  opened,  and  she  lay  with  wide 
open  eyes  in  a  state  between  sleeping  and  waking, 
her  thoughts  so  completely  detached  from  her  will 
that  she  seemed  to  be  listening  rather  than  think- 
ing.    She  lay  quiescent,  and  her  whole  life  seemed 


SISTER    TERESA  323 

to  be  read  out  to  her,  and  at  the  end  of  the  long 
reading  she  answered,  "  Xo  Siegfried  will  come  to 
release  me  from  this  prison  of  invisible  bars.  And 
if  Siegfried  came  to  release  me  from  these  flames — 
for  every  will  is  a  flame — of  what  use  should  I  be 
to  him  ?"  "  Of  what  use"  repeated  like  antiph- 
onj,  and  at  the  end  of  each  verse  she  repeated, 
''  What  use  should  I  be  to  him  ?"  and  this  was  some- 
times followed  by  the  addition,  "  or  to  anyone  ?  God 
has  cast  me  off,"  she  cried,  "  and  men  have  cast 
me  off,  and  my  present  singing  would  appeal  to 
them  as  little  as  my  body.  No  man  can  love  me 
again." 

In  the  silence  of  the  dawn,  the  evening  she  had 
found  Owen  watching  for  her  in  her  drawing-room 
at  Park  Lane  returned.  She  had  been  near  to 
yielding  to  him,  but  he  had  refrained,  though  he 
loved  her  as  much  as  ever.  She  had  not  understood 
at  the  time,  only  long  afterwards,  and  by  degrees, 
that  the  prayers  of  the  nuns  had  withheld  him  from 
her.  The  prayers  of  the  nuns  had  withheld  her 
from  him  in  Thornton  Grange.  Ah,  how  dim  a 
spectre  she  would  seem  to  him  now,  and  to  Ulick 
too,  who  in  his  pagan  mysticism  hated  Christianity 
even  more  than  Owen. 

She  suddenly  became  aware  that  the  convent  had 
moulded  her  to  its  ideas  more  completely  than  Owen 
Asher  had  done;  her  insomnia  was  like  a  glass  in 
w^hich  she  saw  herself  clearly ;  the  very  ends  of  her 
soul  were  revealed  to  her.     It  seemed  to  her  ihMii 


324  SISTEK   TEKESA 

she  must  die,  so  great  was  her  fear.  She  shrank 
from  the  convent,  the  chapel,  the  refectory,  and  the 
passages  were  reflected  upon  her  hrain.  The  nuns 
passed  by  her,  and  she  knew  their  faces  in  every 
minute  reflection  of  line,  in  every  slight  diflPerence 
of  colour,  and  she  heard  them  tell  her  that  this  was 
the  end,  that  no  further  change  would  come  into 
her  life.  As  they  passed  her  she  asked  them  if  her 
life  would  be  prolonged,  but  they  passed  without 
answering  her  question,  and  she  thought  how  friend- 
less the  convent  would  be  when  the  Prioress  died. 
Sister  Mary  John  was  the  only  one  to  whom  she 
could  tell  her  trouble  of  soul,  the  only  one  who 
could  help  her  to  bear  the  trial  of  her  unfaith.  It 
seemed  to  her  that  she  had  been  strangely  indifferent 
to  her  friend's  departure.  She  had  forgotten  her 
quickly,  and  it  seemed  to  her  that  during  the  term 
of  their  friendship  she  had  always  been  curiously 
unresponsive.  Evelyn  saw  her  friend  far  away 
in  Erance.  She  might  be  dead,  she  would  never 
hear  of  her  again,  and  she  cried  out,  "  Come  back !" 
hoping  the  cry  might  reach  her. 

It  was  Sister  Mary  John's  faith  that  had  in- 
spired her ;  it  was  Sister  Mary  John's  example  that 
had  helped  her  to  believe  that  the  Eeal  Presence 
was  the  one  true  reality.  Now  she  remembered 
that  she  had  said  to  Sister  Mary  John,  "  Nothing 
seems  to  me  so  real  as  the  Sacrament,  not  even 
you,  whom  I  can  see  and  touch  with  my  hands. 
.  .  ."  What  sin  had  been  theirs  ?    What  shadow  of 


SISTEK    TERESA  325 

sin  had  Sister  Mary  John  seen  in  their  friendship  ? 
Something  less  than  a  shadow,  and  lest  this  shadow 
of  a  shadow  should  define  itself,  she  had  left  her 
alone  in  the  convent. 

She  had  been  in  bed  three  hours,  and  she  was 
weary  of  thinking,  and  for  three  weeks  she  had 
hardly  slept;  and  in  the  lucidity  of  these  white 
nights  she  had  read  her  life.  At  first  she  had  al- 
lowed herself  to  read  it  for  a  few  moments,  just 
to  see  if  she  remembered  it,  but  gradually  she  had 
yielded  more  and  more  to  the  temptation  of  re- 
membrance. Her  stage  lovers,  and  her  other  lovers, 
even  her  admirers,  men  whose  names  she  did  not 
even  remember,  returned  to  her.  One  of  these  was 
a  young  Russian.  She  remembered  the  evening  they 
had  stood  on  a  hill-top  overlooking  the  city;  from 
where  they  stood  they  could  see  the  harbour  and 
the  ships;  and  she  remembered  the  blown  trees 
and  the  faded  grass,  and  the  young  man,  who  was 
a  prince,  had  pressed  her  to  marry  him.  If  she 
had  done  so  she  would  now  be  a  Russian  princess 
living  among  the  Steppes,  whereas  she  was  now  a 
nun  living  in  the  Wimbledon  convent.  She  never 
would  see  him  again.  Had  he  discovered  someone 
to  marry  him,  and  did  he  ever  think  of  her?  she 
wondered.  Yes,  far  away  in  the  Steppes  he  thought 
of  her  sometimes. 

She  remembered  the  names  of  actors  she  had 
acted  with,  she  remembered  when  they  had  sung 
well  and  when  they  had  sung  badly.     Perhaps  the 


326  SISTEK    TEEESA 

pleasantest  days  to  remember  were  the  days  when 
she  went  to  her  singing  lessons  every  morning,  and 
when  Owen  had  come  from  England  to  visit  them. 
They  had  given  dinner-parties  and  dances  in  that 
house,  in  the  Kue  Balzac,  and  she  remembered  that 
Owen  had  to  leave  her  to  escape  from  the  torment 
of  desire.  She  remembered  that  it  was  difficult  for 
them  to  sit  in  the  same  room  when  others  were 
present. 

But  this  life  of  sin  had  been  forgiven  her,  and 
to  save  herself  from  memories  of  Owen  she  had  to 
think  of  Ulick's  gentleness,  and  the  different  de- 
light she  had  taken  by  his  side.  She  thought  of  the 
days  they  had  spent  in  Ireland,  and  fell  asleep, 
dreaming  of  a  long  beautiful  day  in  the  lonely 
country. 

But  before  the  first  bird  began  to  sing  her  sleep 
had  become  broken,  and  when  the  first  bird  chirped 
a  cry  escaped  from  her,  and  she  moaned  and  seemed 
to  resist  someone.  ^^  Xo,  oh,  no,  Owen,  I  cannot." 
Then  her  voice  sank  to  a  murmur  and  she  waved 
her  arms.  "  It  is  sacrilege,"  she  cried,  and  she 
sank  back.  "  Stay  here  with  me,  no  one  will  know 
you  are  here,  but  in  the  chapel  you  may  be  seen. 
I  cannot  do  that,  I  cannot  commit  sacrilege;  God 
would  never  forgive  that." 

She  lay  stark  and  white  beneath  the  obscene  op- 
pression, unable  to  resist  Owen,  who  led  her  from 
her  cell  to  the  chapel  where  the  nuns  were  assem- 
bled to  Mass.     All  the  way  down  the  stairs  she 


SISTER    TERESA  327 

besought  him,  asking  him  why  he  wished  this  one 
thing.  There  was  a  strange  leer  in  his  eyes,  and 
his  lips  were  strangely  curled  when  he  said  she 
dared  not  go  for  she  knew  Monsignor  was  the  cele- 
brant. He  grasped  her  by  the  wrist  and  dragged 
her,  and  though  she  resisted  with  the  other  arm, 
placing  it  against  the  door-post,  she  was  hurled 
along,  her  strength  giving  way  each  time.  The 
chapel  door  was  open,  and  all  the  nuns  were  in  choir. 
She  could  see  her  empty  place,  but  the  nuns  did 
not  seem  to  see  it  was  empty;  they  were  deep  in 
prayer.  She  was  not  certain  who  was  the  celebrant. 
It  might  be  Monsignor  as  Owen  had  said.  She 
could  not  see  the  celebrant  very  distinctly,  but  the 
server  she  saw  quite  distinctly.  The  server  was 
Veronica,  and  she  wore  a  surplice.  She  had  dis- 
guised herself,  but  her  naked  feet  showed  beneath 
the  surplice,  and  when  she  changed  the  book  from 
the  right  to  the  left  Evelyn  feared  she  would  be 
discovered. 

All  this  while  Owen  and  Evelyn  were  hiding  be- 
hind a  piUar,  and  they  watched  Veronica,  who, 
regardless  of  the  danger  of  discovery,  stood  by  the 
celebrant,  helping  him  to  find  the  place  in  the 
book.  Evelyn  besought  Owen  to  come  back  to  her 
cell  with  her,  but  they  remained  in  hiding,  and  at 
the  Elevation  it  seemed  to  her  it  was  not  Monsignor 
who  was  saying  Mass,  but  a  satyr — a  satyr  whom 
she  had  once  seen  in  a  picture  in  the  Munich  gal- 
lery, and  she  watched  the  vestments,  catching  sight 


328  SISTEK    TERESA 

every  now  and  then  of  the  hoofs.  Then,  forgetting 
the  celebrant,  she  watched  the  nuns,  thinking  every 
moment  one  of  them  would  look  towards  where  she 
and  Owen  were  hiding,  and  one  did  look,  but  to 
Evelyn's  surprise  she  did  not  seem  to  see  them. 

On  the  altar  a  statue  lay  at  length,  and  Evelyn 
was  puzzled  to  explain  its  presence  along  the  altar. 
The  priest  continued  to  say  Mass  as  if  he  were  not 
aware  of  the  statue,  or  even  inconvenienced  by  it, 
and  then  it  seemed  to  Evelyn  not  to  be  a  statue 
but  a  woman.  She  noticed  that  the  face  was  like 
one  of  the  nuns — she  could  not  tell  which,  and  as 
the  priest  bowed  his  head  the  woman  looked  round 
and  watched.  Monsignor  came  from  the  sacred 
table  to  give  them  communion,  and  as  he  was  about 
to  return  to  the  altar  he  caught  sight  of  her  and 
Owen,  though  Owen  had  shrunk  into  the  shadow 
of  the  pillar.  He  asked  him  what  he  had  come 
for,  and  Owen  answered  "  to  communicate."  She 
besought  Owen  to  say  that  he  had  not  come  to 
commit  sacrilege;  but  Owen  begged  the  priest  to 
give  him  the  sacred  Host.  He  put  it  into  his  hand- 
kerchief, and  as  they  were  about  to  leave  the  church 
a  sharp  rap  at  the  door  awoke  her. 

It  was  the  Sister  who  had  come  to  tell  her  to 
watch  before  the  sacrament. 

"  I  cannot,  I  cannot  get  up." 

"  Are  you  ill.  Sister  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  am  very  ill  indeed.  I  cannot  watch  to- 
day, I  cannot;   someone  else  must  take  my  place." 


XXXV 

There  was  no  will  in  her  to  get  up ;  she  lay  quite 
still,  her  eyes  wide  open  and  her  look  was  vague 
like  an  animal's.  She  did  not  dare  to  rouse  herself 
lest  any  stir  might  bring  back  a  glimpse  of  her 
dream.  There  was  no  sign  of  life  in  her,  except 
that  her  face  sometimes  contracted  in  an  expression 
of  suffering,  and  when  at  last  she  slipped  out  of 
bed  and  began  to  dress  herself,  she  was  certain 
that  come  what  may  she  could  not  endure  another 
month  in  the  convent.  The  alternative  of  leaving 
the  convent  no  longer  frightened  her.  Even  if  it 
were  to  kill  the  Prioress  she  must  leave;  her  own 
soul  was  at  stake,  and  every  moment  she  lingered  in 
this  convent,  she  was  losing  it. 

She  hastened  a  little  so  that  she  might  be  in  time 
for  Mass,  and  she  had  begun  to  hope  she  might  be 
able  to  pray.  To  pray  evor  so  little  would  alter 
everything.  But  when  she  knelt  among  the  nuns 
her  heart  was  empty  and  prayer  seemed  like  sacri- 
lege. The  worst  was  that  at  the  Elevation  she  could 
think  of  nothing  but  her  dream.  She  doubted  no 
longer  that  her  soul  was  a  lost  soul,  and  to  live 
with  her  soul,  knowing  it  to  lost,  was  really  hell. 
Only  by  leaving  the  convent  could  she  save  her 
soul.  But  she  could  not  see  the  Prioress  till  noon, 
and  it  seemed  as  if  she  could  not  live  through  her 

329 


330  SISTER    TEItESA 

anxiety.  She  did  not  dare  to  think ;  and  at  dinner 
she  crumbled  a  piece  of  bread  and  drank  a  little 
water,  thankful  for  the  silence,  for  she  would  not 
have  been  able  to  answer  if  she  had  been  spoken  to. 

After  dinner  she  escaped  from  recreation  and 
went  into  the  chapel  and  tried  to  pray.  She  called, 
but  He  answered  not,  and  unable  to  control  her 
nerves  she  left  the  chapel,  and  catching  sight  of 
the  Prioress  in  the  passage  she  hurried  after  her, 
but  paused  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs  to  think  the 
matter  out.  Thinking  did  not  help  her;  the  knot 
remained  untied  in  spite  of  all  her  trembling 
thoughts,  and  she  went  upstairs. 

The  firm,  white  face,  and  the  old  wrinkled  hands 
turning  over  some  papers  unnerved  her,  and  she 
thought  of  the  chill  eyes  reading  in  the  recesses 
of  her  soul. 

"  I  know,  my  dear  child,  that  the  great  crisis  of 
your  life  has  begun.  It  began  some  weeks  ago. 
I  did  not  question  you;  disease  ripens  best  in 
silence.     Sit  down,  and  we  will  talk  about  it." 

Evelyn  dropped  into  a  chair. 

"  If  you  knew.  Mother,  what  I  have  to  say  to 
you  you  could  not  speak  like  that.  If  I  am  to  save 
my  soul  I  must  leave ;   it  has  come  to  that." 

She  spoke  with  feverish  simplicity,  telling  that 
her  motives  were  spiritual,  that  it  was  because  she 
feared  she  could  not  believe  sufficiently,  and  not 
on  account  of  any  desire  of  the  world,  or  of  the  men 
whom  she  had  once  loved;   they  were  dead  to  her, 


SISTER  '  TERESA  331 

the  trouble  of  the  flesh  had  died  out  of  her;  such 
temptations  were  light,  they  could  be  repressed! 
almost  at  will. 

^^  I  feel  that  I  can  love  God  better  in  the  world." 

"  But  if  jou  were  to  return  to  the  world,  the 
passion  that  jou  could  control  here  would  subdue 
jou,  and  all  the  struggle  would  have  been  in  vain. 
Do  you  not  think  that  this  is  so  V' 

"  Oh,  no.  Mother,  I  do  not  think  so.  The  strug- 
gle would  not  have  been  in  vain — God  would  take 
it  into  account.  That  may  not  be  true  doctrine;  I 
fear  that  it  is  not,  and  it  is  the  doctrine  and  not 
the  flesh  that  I  fear.  It  is  not  true  that  the  roots 
of  doubt  are  in  the  flesh,  though  I  thought  so  ODce, 
and  Monsignor  once  told  me  so." 

"  So  you  think,  my  dear  child,  that  you  would 
be  safer  in  the  world  than  you  are  here,  and  that 
you  would  be  leading  a  life  more  pleasing  to  God  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  cannot  think  otherwise,  and  if  I  could 
tell  you  all,  you  too  would  think  so." 

"  Should  I  ?" 

The  two  women  sat  looking  at  each  other,  and 
then  Evelyn  said,  '^  I  am  the  unhappiest  of  women, 
and  the  most  unfortunate,  I  think.  Imagine  a  nun, 
dedicated  to  perpetual  adoration,  and  unable  to 
believe  in  the  sacrament." 

"  You  mean,  Teresa,  that  your  faith  is  no  longer 
as  complete  or  as  fervent  as  it  was.  That  may  be, 
nothing  is  more  likely;  we  should  be  too  happy 
if  a  sensible  faith  were  always  by  us." 


332  SISTER    TERESA 

"  I  have  thought  of  all  that,  Mother.  But  my 
case  is  different.  There  is  no  hope  for  me — my 
soul  is  lost — God  has  deserted  me." 

"  But  what  you  say,  my  dear  child,  is  unthink- 
able. God  cannot  withdraw  belief  in  His  presence 
in  the  sacrament  in  order  that  you  may  return  to 
the  world." 

"  I  see  that  I  cannot  make  you  understand.  No 
one  can  understand  another,  and  perhaps  I  am  diffi- 
cult to  understand.  You  cannot  understand — I 
mean  sympathise — of  course  you  cannot  sympathise 
with  my  leaving  the  convent,  that  is  one  of  my 
afflictions.  You  will  always  misjudge  me,  and  it 
is  not  your  fault.  'No  one  can  lay  before  another 
the  life  that  passes  in  her  soul.  .  .  .  Words  are 
ineffectual  to  explain  it.  With  words  you  can  tell 
the  exterior  facts  of  life;  but  you  cannot  tell  the 
intense  yet  involuntary  life  of  the  soul — that  intri- 
cate and  unceasing  life,  incomprehensible  as  an 
ant  heap,  and  so  personal  though  it  is  involun- 
tary." 

At  that  moment  a  sudden  haunting  of  her  last 
night^s  dream  sprang  upon  her,  bringing  her,  as 
it  were,  to  bay,  and  she  said,  "  If  it  were  not  for 
my  dreams.  Mother." 

"  Your  dreams  are  involuntary,  so  you  are  not 
responsible." 

"  I  have  thought  of  that  too,  but  another  night 
like  last  night,  and  I  should  go  mad.  I  thought 
this  morning  I  should  go  mad.     I  can  only  think 


SISTER    TERESA  333 

that  I  must  be  possessed  with  the  devil.  If  I  could 
but  tell  you  the  dream  you  would  think  so  too." 

^'  The  devil  possesses  no  one  who  does  not  desire 
him.  You  are  excited  and  cannot  control  your 
nerves;    but  a  little  time  will  bring  the  change." 

Then  the  Reverend  Mother  mentioned  one  who, 
the  Scripture  said,  had  had  an  evil  spirit  cast  out 
of  her;  and  Evelyn  mentioned  another,  and  the 
question  was  discussed  for  a  while.  Both  were 
conscious  of  the  irrelevancy,  but  neither  could  dis- 
entangle herself  from  it,  and  it  allowed  Evelyn  to 
consider  the  wretchedness  of  her  plight  if  she  re- 
turned to  the  world,  and  the  Reverend  Mother  to 
think  how  she  could  save  her  from  the  fatal  step. 
Suddenly  there  came  a  silence,  and  Evelyn  said, — 

"  I  became  a  nun,  I  am  thinking,  too  late,  or 
too  soon.  I  can  understand  the  acceptation  of  the 
religious  life  by  those  who  passed,  like  Veronica, 
from  the  schoolroom  to  the  novitiate;  and  there 
are  those  who  enter  the  convent  late  in  life,  when 
the  vine  of  life  has  perished,  in  disappointment, 
in  misfortune." 

The  two  nuns  sat  a  long  while  without  speaking. 

"  Yes,  Teresa,  the  vine  of  life  gathers  round  and 
captures  and  overgrows  our  natural  love  of  God. 
You  were  seven  or  eight-and-twenty,  I  think,  when 
you  came  here  first — I  was  twenty-five  when  my 
husband  died.  Before  I  was  married  I  often  used 
to  come  to  the  convent.  I  was  fond  of  the  nuns, 
and  I  was  a  pious  girl,  and,  like  you,  I  once  made 


334  SISTER    TERESA 

a  retreat  when  T  was  sixteen  or  seventeen.  But 
after  our  marriage  I  forgot  our  holy  religion,  and 
thought  seldom  of  God.  I  was  captured  by  life, 
the  vine  of  life  grew  about  me  and  held  me  tight. 
One  day,  passing  by  the  door  of  the  convent,  my 
husband  said,  '  It  is  lucky  that  love  rescued  you, 
for  when  I  met  you  you  were  a  little  taken  by  the 
convent,  and  might  have  become  a  nun.  If  you 
had  not  fallen  in  love,'  he  said,  ^  you  might  have 
shut  yourself  up  in  there — fancy  you  shut  up  in 
there  draped  in  a  grey  habit.'  I  wore  that  day  a 
grey  silk  dress,  and  T  remember  taking  the  skirt 
up  as  we  passed  the  door  and  hitting  the  kerb  stone 
with  it.  '  Shut  up  in  that  prison  house !  how  could 
I  ever  have  thought  of  such  a  thing !'  These  were 
my  words,  but  God  in  His  great  goodness  and 
wisdom  resolved  to  bring  me  back  to  Him.  A  great 
deal  is  required  to  save  our  souls,  so  deeply  are 
we  enmeshed  in  the  delight  of  life,  and  in  the 
delight  of  one  another.  So  God  took  my  husband 
from  me  after  an  illness  of  three  weeks.  This 
happened  forty  years  ago — far  away  from  here  I 
used  to  sit  on  the  seashore  crying  all  day.  My 
little  child  used  to  put  his  arms  about  me  and  say, 
*  What  is  mamie  crying  for  V  Then  my  child  died, 
seemingly  without  any  reason,  and  I  felt  that  I 
could  not  live  any  longer  amid  the  desires  and 
activities  of  men.  I  will  not  try  to  tell  you  what 
my  grief  was;  you  have  suffered  grief,  and  may 
imagine  it.     I  left  my  home  at  once  and  hurried 


SISTER    TERESA  335 

here,  just  as  you  did.  When  I  saw  you  return 
here  after  your  father's  death  I  could  not  but  think 
of  my  own  returning.  I  saw  myself  in  you.  But 
we  nuns  do  not  speak  of  our  past  lives,  and  if  I 
have  told  you  it  is  because  a  force  within  me  im- 
pelled me  to  do  so.  It  may  help  you;  one  never 
knows  what  may  help  another — help  comes  unex- 
pectedly, and  from  an  unexpected  side." 

"  Thank  you,  dear  Mother,  I  know  what  it  must 
have  cost  you  to  speak  of  these  past  things.  There 
is  a  great  lesson  in  all  you  have  said." 

At  that  moment  the  question  of  whether  the  death 
of  a  father  was  as  wide  and  deep  a  distraction  in 
the  life  of  a  woman  as  the  death  of  a  husband  and 
child  set  itself  before  Evelyn.  But  after  consider- 
ing the  question  for  a  while,  she  put  it  aside,  not 
daring  to  think  it  out,  and  listened  instead  to  the 
Reverend  Mother,  who  w^as  speaking  to  her  of  what 
her  life  would  be  in  the  world  if  she  were  to  return 
to  it. 

"  You  have  said  that  to  go  back  to  the  stage  is  out 
of  the  question,  so  I  can  only  think  of  you  as  a 
music  teacher.  The  money  you  gave  to  the  con- 
vent cannot  be  returned  to  you  unless  all  the  nuns 
agree.    I  do  not  know  if  it  could  be  managed." 

"  Do  not  speak  of  such  a  thing.  To  put  back 
the  weight  of  debt  on  your  shoulders  which  it  was 
my  mission  to  lift  from  them!  If  I  were  to  do 
that  then  indeed  my  life  would  be  deprived  of  all 
meaning  whatever.     It  would  be  all  quicksand — 


336  SISTEK    TERESA 

shifting  sand.  The  redemption  of  this  convent 
from  debt  is  the  one  thing  that  I  have  accomplished. 
Under  no  circumstances  could  I  ever  take  back  the 
money.    I^Tever  speak  of  it  again." 

"  My  dear  child,  I  should  like  to  say  you  are 
very  good,  but  this  is  not  the  moment  for  saying 
such  things.  Yet  I  think  I  can  say  that  I  do  not 
believe  God  will  allow  anyone  who  is  as  good  as 
you  are,  who  desires  goodness  as  ardently  as  you 
do,  to  leave  the  convent  and  start  again  in  the 
miserable  life  of  the  world,  where  all  is  disap- 
pointment. We  shall  pray  for  you,  and  we  have 
confidence  in  our  prayers.  They  have  been  an- 
swered before." 

"  I  fear  this  return  to  the  world.  Outside  of 
the  convent  what  can  my  life  be — the  life  of  an 
obscure  music  teacher,  half  remembered  and  half 
forgotten — grey  and  shadow-like  I  shall  pass — 

'  When  I  move  among  shadows  a  shadow,  and  wail  by 
impassable  streams.' 

My  sole  reality  will  be  the  convent.  I  shall  never 
see  you,  dear  Mother,  nor  any  of  the  Sisters — 
Veronica,  Mother  Philippa,  and  Mother  Mary 
Hilda,  so  gentle  and  wise,  and  yet  I  shall  see 
nothing  but  you  all,  just  as  an  exile  sees  nothing 
but  his  native  land.  I  had  often  wondered  before 
I  came  here  what  my  end  would  be,  and  I  imagined 
all  kinds  of  ends,  but  never  one  so  shadowy  as  mine 
will  be  if  I  leave  you.  .  .  .  The  disgrace,  too — 


SISTER    TERESA  337 

undoing  all  the  good  that  I  have  done,  that  seems 
the  hardest  part.  It  is  my  desertion  you  will  re- 
member ;  not  you,  Mother,  but  the  convent." 

The  Prioress  told  Evelyn  that  when  the  Mothers 
met  to  discuss  whether  they  should  vote  for,  or 
against,  her  election.  Mother  Mary  Hilda  had  ad- 
vised her  rejection  until  she  had  proved  the  reality 
of  her  vocation  by  remaining  another  year  in  the 
novitiate. 

"  But  I  always  believed  in  your  vocation,  and 
I  shall  believe  in  it.  God  will  guide  us  aright,  and 
will  listen  to  our  prayers.  But  if  it  should  so  hap- 
pen that  you  should  feel  your  spiritual  welfare 
to  be  endangered  by  remaining  in  the  convent,  you 
must  leave — there  can  be  no  question  of  that.  We 
must  all  be  guided  by  our  consciences.  There  is 
so  much  that  we  do  not  understand.  We  must 
always  place  ourselves  in  the  hands  of  God." 

This  admission  seemed  to  disarm  Evelyn,  and  the 
terrors  of  the  night  having  worn  off  she  began  to 
think  her  fears  were  illusory,  and  that  by  strenuous 
efforts  on  her  part  and  by  the  aid  of  the  prayers 
of  the  nuns  God  would  give  back  His  grace  to  her. 

The  Prioress  found  wise  words,  and  Evelyn 
agreed  that  a  month  was  the  shortest  time  she  could 
give  to  the  consideration  of  so  irreparable  an  act 
as  the  breaking  of  her  vows. 

"  Oh,  the  restlessness  of  life,  and  how  weary 
I  am  of  it !"  she  said,  as  they  went  downstairs,  for 
the  chapel  bell  was  ringing  for  Benediction. 

22 


XXXVI 

The  fortitude  which  had  enabled  the  Prioress 
to  endure  her  life,  after  the  death  of  her  husband 
and  her  child,  appealed  to  all  that  Evelyn  admired 
most  in  human  character,  and  she  looked  at  the  old 
woman  with  affectionate  and  wondering  eyes.  The 
simple  words  in  which  she  had  described  the  ship- 
wreck of  her  life  enabled  Evelyn  to  see  it  clearly, 
and  she  could  picture  the  young  woman,  without  a 
hope  in  this  world,  driving  like  a  ship  upon  the 
rocks,  but  saving  herself  by  extraordinary  force 
of  character.  After  the  death  of  husband  and  child, 
the  convent  was  the  only  consolation  for  a  woman 
like  the  Prioress,  and  for  nearly  half  a  century 
her  life  had  swung  at  anchor,  like  a  ship,  in  a  safe 
harbour.  Evelyn  entered  the  chapel  with  her,  real- 
ising the  beauty  of  her  serene  age,  and  the  wonder 
of  her  life  in  its  faith  and  its  romance.  And  under 
this  influence  Evelyn  prayed  a  little  while,  and  it 
seemed  to  her  that  the  troubles  of  her  life  had  faded 
from  her.  But  before  she  had  left  the  chapel,  be- 
fore even  she  had  finished  her  prayer,  her  thoughts 
had  strayed  back  to  the  sacrament.  The  faintly 
burning  lamp  had  drawn  her  thoughts  back  to  it, 
and  she  could  see  it  white  and  transparent  amid 

the  gold. 
338 


SISTER    TERESA  339 

Did  she  believe?  Yes,  she  believed,  and  that 
seemed  the  worst  part  of  her  misfortune.  She  did 
not  wish  to  defile  the  sacrament ;  but  she  was  per- 
secuted by  thoughts  of  how  it  might  be  defiled.  In 
her  dream  Owen  had  put  the  Host  into  his  hand- 
kerchief, and  they  were  going  to  take  it  to  her  cell 
to  defile  it.  She  awoke  as  they  were  leaving  the 
chapel,  but  the  memory  of  this  dream  was  unen- 
durable, and  she  felt  she  could  not  rid  herself  of 
it  without  leaving  the  convent.  To  avoid  blasphemy 
she  must  get  away  from  the  sacrament.  To  think 
of  God  she  must  go  to  some  beautiful  hollow  in  some 
delightful  land.  ...  As  long  as  she  stayed  in  the 
convent  sin  would  be  with  her  for  a  daily  and 
nightly  companion.  Old  sins  would  revisit  her, 
and  her  calamity  was  the  unexpectedness  of  these 
thoughts.  She  was  weary  of  putting  them  back, 
and  in  sleep  she  was  powerless  against  them.  Her 
nights  were  poisoned  by  dreams,  out  of  which  she 
awoke — hollow  eyed — in  the  blue  dusk  of  dawn. 

She  had  heard  that  our  dreams  are  only  the  con- 
tinuance of  our  thoughts  at  the  moment  of  falling 
asleep.  And  though  from  the  moment  she  got  into 
bed  she  had  prayed  without  ceasing,  it  was  impos- 
sible for  her  to  say  that  some  thought  of  Owen  had 
not  come  into  her  mind,  and  that  her  dream  was 
not  the  sequence  of  her  waking  thoughts,  and  for 
these  she  was  responsible,  and  she  asked  why  she 
should  stay  in  the  convent.  The  convent  was  a 
cause  of  sin,  and  she  could  no  longer  approach  God 


340  SISTEE    TEKESA 

in  prayer,  so  she  abstained  from  prayer,  and  her 
state  grew  more  unhappy  every  day.  Every  day 
discovered  new  misgivings,  finer  subtleties,  and  de- 
spair settled  gradually  down  on  her.  She  lost  con- 
trol over  her  nerves,  and  all  the  old  symptoms  mani- 
fested themselves  .  .  .  sleepless  nights  and  exces- 
sive consciousness  of  external  things.  She  could 
see  her  life  from  end  to  end,  distinct  like  an  insect 
under  a  glass,  and  at  night  she  noted  the  quiver 
of  the  antennae  as  she  lay  staring  into  the  darkness, 
or  as  she  walked  up  and  down  her  cell,  afraid  to 
go  to  sleep.  Every  argument  she  had  heard  against 
God  floated  through  her  brain,  leaving  her  no  rest. 
At  half-past  six,  before  she  had  closed  her  eyes, 
or  slept  at  all,  she  would  have  to  get  up  for  medi- 
tation, and,  worse  than  meditation,  there  was  Mass, 
and  worse  than  Mass  was  her  watch  before  the 
sacrament.  She  had  reached  the  point  of  denial, 
and  she  feared  God  while  she  denied  God.  Her 
eyes  grew  hollow,  her  skin  pale,  and  her  health 
deteriorated  rapidly,  and  before  the  month  of  con- 
sideration which  the  Prioress  had  demanded  from 
her  had  expired,  she  was  unable  to  leave  her  cell. 
The  Prioress  came  to  see  her  there,  but  Evelyn 
could  not  answer  her. 

The  Prioress  said,  "You  are  certainly  very  ill, 
and  we  cannot  accept  the  responsibility  any  longer." 

And  the  next  day  was  appointed  for  Evelyn  to 
declare  that  she  wished  to  leave.  One  of  the  wit- 
nesses would  be  the  chaplain ;  and  Mother  Philippa 


SISTER    TEEESA  341 

and  Mother  Mary  Hilda,  they  would  be  witnesses 
too  if  necessary.  But  feeling  that  someone  from 
outside,  someone  more  important  than  the  convent 
chaplain  was  required,  the  Reverend  Mother 
wrote, — 

"  Dear  Monsiqnob, — Your  help  is  needed  very 
sorely,  and  no  one  can  help  us  in  our  extremity 
except  you — if  you  can  help  us.  I  beg  you  to  come 
here  to-morrow,  in  the  afternoon,  about  three 
o'clock,  and  I  will  explain  the  whole  matter  to  you. 
I  am  sure  I  have  said  enough  for  you  to  understand 
that  no  other  engagement  should  prevent  your 
coming  here.  Trusting  in  God  that  some  way  will 
be  found  out  of  our  difficulty. — I  remain." 

The  prelate's  face  assumed  a  grave  expression  as 
he  read  the  letter.  He  looked  at  and  turned  it  over, 
and  he  said  to  himself,  "  So  it  has  come  at  last ;" 
for  he  had  no  doubt  the  matter  concerned  Sister 
Teresa.  "  It  cannot  be  anything  else,"  he  thought, 
"  except  that  she  wishes  to  leave  the  convent."  He 
wrote  several  letters,  adjourning  some  appointments 
he  had  made,  and  when  he  arrived  at  the  convent 
he  found  the  Prioress  waiting  to  receive  him  in  the 
parlour,  and  her  face  was  so  grave  and  sad  that 
she  need  not  have  spoken.  Then  the  chaplain  en- 
tered the  room,  and  the  Prioress  said, — 

"  I  will  tell  Monsignor  what  has  happened." 
He  remembered  of  course  the  advice  that  he  had 


342  SISTER    TERESA 

given  to  the  Prioress,  when  it  was  agitated  whether 
Evelyn  should  be  received  into  the  convent,  and  he 
thought  for  a  second  of  the  Prioress's  obstinacy, 
so  he  did  not  dare  to  say,  "  Who  could  have  foreseen 
this?"  lest  she  might  suspect  his  thoughts.  And 
for  the  same  reason  he  did  not  dare  to  say,  "  We 
might  have  expected  this."  So  nothing  was  left  for 
him  to  say  except  that  it  was  very  sad,  and  that  he 
hoped  that  the  mood  would  pass  away. 

The  Prioress  shook  her  head. 

"  I  make  no  complaint ;  we  all  acted  for  the 
best,  and  apparently  we  have  been  mistaken." 

She  rang  a  bell,  and  when  the  lay  Sister  ap- 
peared she  told  her  to  tell  Sister  Teresa  to  come 
to  the  parlour.  "  Tell  Sister  Teresa  nothing  more 
than  that  I  am  waiting  to  see  her  in  the  parlour." 

"  Do  you  think,"  Monsignor  said,  "  that  my  pres- 
ence will  influence  her  to  remain  here  ?" 

"  I  don't  know.    I  put  my  trust  in  God." 

The  painful  silence  was  broken  by  the  opening 
of  the  door  and  Sister  Teresa  entered. 

She  had  expected  to  see  the  Prioress  and  the  chap- 
lain ;  but  when  she  saw  Monsignor  a  personal  look 
came  into  her  face,  a  mist  collected  in  her  eyes. 
She  tottered  a  few  steps,  and  she  fell  forwards,  fall- 
ing on  the  floor. 


XXXVII 

When  she  opened  her  eyes  she  was  in  the  in- 
firmary, and  Veronica  was  sitting  by  her  bedside, 
and  when  she  asked  where  she  was  Veronica  told 
her,  and  she  said,  "  Yes,  I  remember,  I  wanted  to 
leave  the  convent  life  because  I  cannot  believe  in 
the  sacrament."  Then,  seeing  Veronica's  face 
change,  she  said,  "  I  should  not  tell  you  these 
things.  What  will  the  Keverend  Mother  say?" 
She  closed  her  eyes,  and  when  she  opened  them 
again  she  said,  "  It  is  not  that  I  do  not  believe  in 
the  sacrament,  but  because  I  do  not  believe  as  I 
wish  to  believe.  Think  of  the  sacrilege — I  dread 
the  sacrament  because  I  am  not  sure;  that  is  it, 
because  I  am  not  sure." 

"  Sister  Teresa,  you  must  lie  quite  still  and  not 
talk.  You  have  been  very  ill,  and  we  thought  you 
would  die,  but  now  you  are  a  little  better." 

"  Veronica,  you  are  one  of  the  lucky  ones ;  you 
came  to  the  convent  knowing  nothing  of  the 
world." 

"  Sister  Teresa,  you  must  not  speak ;  you  will 
only  make  yourself  worse." 

"  But  I  cannot  help  speaking,  for  I  cannot  help 
thinking.  ...  If  I  get  worse  I  shall  have  to  re- 
ceive the  sacrament  or  refuse  it.  Oh,  what  am  I 
saying  ?    What  must  you  think  of  me  V^ 

343 


344  SISTEK    TERESA 

"  Sister  Teresa,  you  have  been  very  ill,  and  if 
you  will  keep  quiet  you  will  get  well/' 

"  I  was  an  actress  before  I  came  here,  and  it 
was  Monsignor  who  converted  me.  But  why  am  I 
telling  you  these  things  ?" 

"  I  must  not  listen  to  you,  Sister,  I  have  my 
rosary  to  say." 

And  while  Veronica  told  her  beads  Evelyn 
babbled  a  little  from  time  to  time.  She  spoke  of 
Tllick,  who  had  taught  her  the  music  of  Isolde; 
she  had  not  wished  to  learn  it,  but  he  had  per- 
suaded her  to;  and  Evelyn  continued,  half  in  de- 
lirium, to  talk  about  the  Irish  Princess  and  King 
Mark. 

"  How  badly  the  nuns  are  singing  and  how  ugly 
that  hymn  is.  Close  the  window.  If  you  do  not, 
I  shall  not  remember  what  Isolde  answers."  And 
so  that  she  might  not  hear  her  Veronica  joined  in 
the  hymn  under  her  breath.  "  Ah,  you  will  not 
listen,  you  are  afraid  to  listen  to  my  music.  Listen 
to  it.    It  is  much  more  beautiful  than  that  hymn." 

She  did  not  speak  again  for  nearly  half  an  hour. 
Looking  towards  Veronica,  who  was  telling  her 
beads,  she  said, — 

"  I  have  not  been  a  success  as  a  nun,  but  I  cannot 
go  back  to  the  stage.  You've  drained  all  that  out 
of  me.  I  should  be  a  failure  if  I  went  back — 
'  among  shadows  a  shadow.'  Shadows,  shadows 
everywhere;  but  what  is  failure?  It  cannot  be 
said  that  I  have  not  striven,  and  perhaps  it  is  the 


SISTEK   TERESA  346 

striving  that  counts.  In  the  way  of  the  world  I 
am  not  a  success,  and  in  the  way  of  the  convent 
I  am  not  a  success.  But  I  know  one  who  saw  God 
everywhere — in  every  flower,  in  every  star,  in  all 
the  interspaces — and  maybe  there  is  a  judgment  of 
which  we  know  nothing,  quite  different  from  the 
judgment  in  the  narrow  hearts  of  men  and  of 
creeds." 

Then  suddenly  Evelyn  cried  out  that  God  had 
forsaken  her,  and  she  began  to  sing  some  of  the 
music  from  Isolde.  She  was  singing  it  when  the 
Prioress  came  in,  and  she  continued  singing  and 
babbling,  only  half-conscious  of  what  was  passing 
around  her.  The  Prioress  asked  Mother  Philippa 
if  the  doctor  should  be  sent  for,  but  before  the 
sub-Prioress  could  answer  Evelyn  declared  that  she 
must  see  him. 

So  there  was  no  choice  but  to  send  for  him,  and 
when  he  had  sat  by  her  bedside  and  watched  her 
he  held  out  very  little  hope  to  the  Prioress  of  her 
recovery. 

Evelyn  was  at  first  anxious  to  know  what  he  had 
said,  then  she  did  not  seem  to  care,  and  it  was  diffi- 
cult to  get  her  to  take  her  food  or  medicine.  She 
asked  them  not  to  trouble  her  with  medicines.  She 
seemed  to  desire  death.  Hour  after  hour  she  wasted 
away  in  intermittent  delirium,  and  the  convent  for 
which  she  had  given  up  so  much  seemed  hardly  to 
concern  her  at  all.  Sometimes  she  listened,  hearing 
imaginary  music,  and  she  beat  the  time.     Then 


346  SISTEK    TERESA 

the  orchestra  would  be  changed  in  her  ears  to  a 
piano,  and  she  would  cry  to  her  accompanist,  "Ah, 
there  jou  have  given  me  a  wrong  chord — begin 
again;"  and  she  would  sing  fragments  from 
"  Tristan'^  and  "  Lohengrin." 

"  I  beseech  you,  Sister  Teresa,  listen  to  me,  and 
cease  to  sing.  You  are  making  yourself  very  much 
worse,  and  I  am  responsible,"  Veronica  said. 

The  doctor's  orders  were  that  she  should  be  kept 
perfectly  quiet;  but  as  he  seemed  to  regard  her 
life  as  practically  lost,  the  Prioress  took  advantage 
of  a  sudden  abatement  in  the  delirium  to  ask  her 
if  she  would  like  to  see  the  chaplain.  She  spoke 
ahout  confession,  and  communion,  and  besought  her 
to  make  her  peace  with  God. 

"  But,  Mother,  I  am  at  peace  with  Him ;  so 
long  as  I  do  not  communicate,  I  am  at  peace  with 
Him.    I  am  very  weak,  but  I  have  no  fear  now." 

"  But,  my  child,  think  of  it,  if  you  should  die 
unreconciled  to  our  holy  Church.  Will  you  see  our 
chaplain  ?" 

"  Mother,  I  dare  not.  He  will  bring  the  sacra- 
ment with  him.  Oh,  I'm  so  frightened.  Do  not 
ask  me." 

"  He  will  not  bring  the  sacrament  if  you  do  not 
wish  it." 

"  He  will  talk  to  me  about  it.  There  is  nothing 
to  say." 

And  the  Prioress  left  her  without  having  ob- 
tained her  consent  to  see  Father  Matthews ;  but  in 


SISTER    TEEESA  347 

the  course  of  the  morning  she  called  Veronica  and 
said  she  would  like  to  see  him. 

^^  You  have  doubts,  my  dear  child,  I  know,  in 
the  Real  Presence  of  God  in  the  sacrament." 

"  I  believe  that  God  is  everywhere." 

"  Do  you  believe  that  God  is  more  immediately 
in  the  sacrament  than  elsewhere?" 

"  Yes,  since  we  have  chosen  the  Eucharist  as  the 
symbol  of  our  belief  in  the  omnipresence  of  God." 

"  But,  my  dear  child,  when  life  hovers,  as  it 
were,  on  the  edge  of  death?" 

"  But,  Father,  I  have  no  fear.  I  ought  to  have, 
perhaps,  but  I  feel  no  fear.  I  feel  that  I  have  done 
my  best." 

The  priest  could  elicit  no  more  definite  declara- 
tion of  adherence  to  Catholic  dogma,  and  he  left 
the  infirmary  perplexed.  It  seemed  to  him  that 
he  would  not  be  able  to  administer  the  sacrament 
to  her  unless  she  was  more  intimately  possessed  by 
the  dogma  than  her  words  would  seem  to  indicate, 
and  this  point  was  discussed  with  Monsignor,  who 
called  that  afternoon.  But  Monsignor  was  inclined 
to  a  more  liberal  comprehension  of  belief.  Belief, 
he  pointed  out,  was  not  a  definite  nor  ponderable 
quality.  It  was  impossible  for  anyone  to  assign 
limitations  to  their  belief  in  God,  and  he  seemed 
even  to  insinuate  that  there  was  no  criterion  of 
belief.  The  Church  only  required  that  the  sinner 
should  declare  her  submission  to  the  teaching  of 
the  Church;    but  the  quality  of  her  belief  in  God 


348  SISTER    TERESA 

and  in  the  sacrament  could  only  be  assessed  by 
God  Himself. 

"  If  Monsignor  thinks  so,  there  can  be  no  fur- 
ther doubt.  On  a  theological  question  I  should  be 
sorry  to  put  forward  my  poor  opinion  against  his. 
Perhaps  then  Monsignor  will  accept  the  responsi- 
bility.'^ 

"  But,  my  dear  Father  Matthews,  I  should  be 
sorry  .  .  .'' 

"  l^Oj  no,  I  think  it  will  be  better  so.  You  have 
influence  with  our  dear  Sister  Teresa,  which  I  have 
not ;  it  was  you  who  brought  about  her  conversion, 
so  it  is  then  for  you,  Monsignor,  to  administer  the 
sacrament,  if  she  will  accept  it." 

This  seemed  to  decide  the  matter,  and  Monsignor 
went  to  the  infirmary  with  the  Prioress;  and  Ve- 
ronica, after  bowing  to  Monsignor,  gave  him  her 
chair  by  the  bedside. 

The  eyes  of  the  sick  woman  lighted  up  a  little, 
and  she  said, — 

"  Monsignor,  it  is  very  good  of  you  to  come  to 
see  me.  I  am  very  ill,  I  feel  it;  it  is  better  that 
I  should  die.  I  have  given  you  all  a  great  deal 
of  trouble.  I  have  never  known  myself;  it  is  so 
difficult.  I  envy  those  who  do;  their  lot  is  hap- 
pier than  mine." 

"  But,  my  dear  child,  I  would  not  have  you  speak 
of  not  knowing  your  own  mind;  I  do  not  think 
anyone  has  ever  known  better  than  you.  Very  few 
have  made  the  sacrifice  that  you  have  made.     But 


SISTER    TERESA  349 

they  tell  me  you  do  not  believe  in  the  sacrament 
as  much  as  they  wish  you  to.  I  have  confidence 
that  your  belief  is  sufficient." 

"  It  is  not  that  I  do  not  believe — they  never 
quite  understood  me,  but  you  will ;  it  is  that  I  am 
not  sure,  as  I  used  to  feel  sure — ^you  can  have  no 
idea  how  sure  I  once  was,  and  the  happiness  my 
belief  brought  me  was  more  than  any  other  hap- 
piness. I  believed  once  so  intensely  that  every- 
thing else  seemed  like  nothing.  .  .  .  The  whole 
world  was  a  shadow,  and  my  belief  was  the  one  real 
thing  in  it.  But  that  belief  has  passed  from  me. 
If  I  live  I  may  regain  it  again ;  maybe  I  may  re- 
gain it  before  I  die,  even  without  getting  well." 

"  My  dear  child,  I  see  you  have  been  troubled 
and  am  sorry  for  you,  but  you  must  not  think  any 
more.  I  feel  sure  you  will  feel  happier  after  hav- 
ing received  the  sacrament.  We're  all  so  anxious 
on  the  subject,  the  Reverend  Mother,  and  the  whole 
of  the  community." 

"  Oh,  Monsignor,  I'm  not  happy  enough,  I'm 
not  filled  with  the  love  of  God,  and  if  some  wicked 
thought  should  cross  my  mind  as  you  gave  me  the 
Host,  I  should  die  of  fear.  I  might  die  with  a 
dreadful  thought  in  my  mind,  and  next  moment 
find  myself  face  to  face  with  God.  Monsignor,  I 
dare  not,  do  not  ask  me.  .  .  .  The  doctor  said  I 
was  to  be  kept  quiet." 

He  did  not  answer  her,  and  presently  he  thought 
it  prudent  to  withdraw,  and  when  the  doctor  called 


350  SISTER    TERESA 

a  little  later  he  inquired  from  Veronica  if  she  had 
been  talking  much,  and  if  anything  had  happened 
to  disturb  her.  Veronica  told  him  that  Monsignor 
had  asked  her  if  she  would  receive  Holy  Com- 
munion. 

"  And  did  she  communicate  ?" 

"  IS'o." 

The  doctor's  face  darkened,  and  he  murmured 
something  about  his  orders  being  disobeyed,  and 
afterwards  in  the  parlour  he  told  the  Prioress  that 
after  the  great  mental  strain  Evelyn  had  been  sub- 
jected to  that  afternoon  he  could  not  answer  for 
her  recovery.  But  the  Prioress  was  not  in  the 
least  intimidated,  and  she  answered  that  the  sacra- 
ment was  more  important  than  any  medicine,  and 
that  it  brought  greater  quiet.  The  doctor  answered 
that  it  was  not  his  province  to  discuss  such  ques- 
tions, and  he  told  her  he  did  not  think  Sister 
Teresa  would  outlast  the  day. 

^•'  In  that  case,"  the  Prioress  said,  "  I  had  better 
send  for  Monsignor,  as  she  will  have  to  receive 
Extreme  Unction." 

The  doctor  shrugged  his  shoulders,  feeling  more 
sure  than  ever  that  his  patient  would  not  recover, 
and  a  message  was  sent  to  Veronica. 

She  drew  forward  a  small  table  and  covered  it 
with  a  white  cloth.  She  put  the  crucifix  and  holy 
water  on  the  table,  and  a  plate  with  some  cotton 
wool  in  it,  and  then  she  turned  back  the  bedclothes, 
leaving  the  feet  bare.      She  had  hardly  finished 


SISTER    TEEESA  351 

when  many  footsteps  were  heard  on  the  stairs  and 
a  little  procession  of  nuns  preceded  the  priest,  and 
thej  all  knelt  about  the  bedside.  Veronica,  who 
was  in  charge  of  the  ceremony,  handed  the  priest 
what  he  needed  swiftly  and  silently.  The  Prioress 
knelt  close  to  Evelyn,  and  she  recited  the  Con- 
fiteor  while  Monsignor  took  the  holy  oil  from  a 
silver  cruet  and  anointed  the  eyes,  ears,  and  nos- 
trils. He  wiped  the  anointed  places  with  the  cot- 
ton wool.  The  feet,  long  and  very  white,  were 
then  anointed  and  wiped,  and  their  beauty  was 
remarked,  though  everyone  was  in  tears.  The  nuns 
wept  silently,  remembering  that  the  dying  woman 
had  paid  their  debts.  All  jealousies  and  ingrati- 
tudes were  regretted,  and  Evelyn  heard  the  mur- 
mur of  Latin  prayers.  As  the  nuns  rose  from  their 
knees  and  were  about  to  leave  the  cell,  Evelyn 
opened  her  eyes,  and  after  looking  from  one  to  the 
other,  she  turned  her  eyes  on  Monsignor  and 
said, — 

"  Monsignor,  will  you  hear  my  confession  and 
give  me  communion  ?" 

All  withdrew,  leaving  Evelyn  alone  with  the 
priest. 

''  Fearful  thoughts  about  the  sacrament  have 
passed  through  my  mind — not  now ;  I  am  at  peace 
now.  I  used  to  put  them  aside,  but  they  returned 
almost  immediately,  and  I  could  not  pray,  and  it 
came  to  this,  that  I  dared  not  sleep,  so  dreadful 
were  my  dreams.    It  seemed  once  that  I  was  losing 


362  SISTEK    TEEESA 

my  soul  by  remaining  here.  ...  I  think  I  have 
said  everything." 

Monsignor  gave  her  absolution,  and  a  moment 
after  the  chaplain  arrived  with  the  sacrament. 
Monsignor  was  handed  the  ciborium,  and  Veronica 
lifted  Evelyn  a  little.  There  was  little  eagerness 
in  her  eye,  but  she  received  the  Host  reverentially, 
and  Veronica  laid  her  back  on  the  pillow.  Her 
eyes  closed  and  it  seemed  to  her  that  she  was  very 
tired,  and  that  her  sleep  would  be  very  long  and 
dark  and  peaceful. 

She  heard  the  procession  pass  away,  but  she  did 
not  hear  any  more. 

"  Of  course  we  must  not  wish  her  to  die,"  said 
Mother  Hilda,  "  but  it  would  have  been  a  terrible 
disgrace,  and  we  must  thank  God  for  having  saved 
us  from  it." 

The  Prioress  said, — 

"  She  is  not  dead  yet,  and  if  she  lives  the  strug- 
gle will  begin  again." 


XXXVIII 

Veronica  moved  to  her  side,  murmuring  her 
prayers  under  her  breath,  she  watched  her  face  for 
some  sign  of  life;  but  she  lay  quite  still,  and  her 
stillness  frightened  the  nun,  and  when  the  doctor 
called  next  day  he  seemed  surprised  to  hear  she 
was  still  alive.  And  for  the  next  three  or  four 
days  it  was  difficult  to  detect  any  change  in  her. 
But  nature  never  rests;  change  there  always  will 
be,  though  the  differences  from  day  to  day  escape 
our  observation. 

The  summer  heat  exhausted  her  and  seemed  to 
delay  her  recovery,  and  it  was  not  until  the  end 
of  September  that  she  was  able  to  go  into  the 
garden  that  year.  The  autumn  was  a  singularly 
beautiful  one.  The  days  were  like  July  days,  only 
shorter  and  a  little  cooler;  and  in  the  mornings 
she  sat  on  the  terrace,  watching  the  fading  garden 
and  the  glittering  skies.  She  thought  she  had  never 
seen  skies  so  beautiful  before.  There  was  a  strange 
allurement  in  the  blue;  the  skies  reminded  her  of 
death — of  some  beautiful  death,  of  something  far 
away.  The  boughs  no  longer  lifted  themselves  and 
danced  to  the  light ;  they  hung  low  as  if  burdened 
with  the  weight  of  leaves,  and  all  the  leaves  were 
moveless  in  the  moveless  air. 

23  368 


354  SISTEK    TEKESA 

September  passed,  and  in  October  she  noticed 
that  the  grass  was  tangled  and  wet — the  dew  had 
been  heavy  that  night — and  she  had  to  keep  to 
the  gravelled  path.  The  last  sun-flowers  blackened, 
and  the  chrysanthemums  came  out — strange 
growths  of  feverish,  unnatural  beauty.  A  night^s 
frost  had  turned  the  beech  tree  in  the  middle  of 
the  garden  from  yellow  to  red  orange,  and  the  same 
frost  stripped  the  ash  of  nearly  all  its  fairy  leaves. 

The  garden  seemed  to  struggle  against  death  just 
as  Evelyn  had  struggled.  The  rose  tree  still  tried 
to  break  to  flower,  but  the  outer  leaves  of  the  blos- 
soms had  been  killed  by  the  frost,  and  the  buds 
could  not  open.  Evelyn  noticed  that  the  geraniums 
she  had  planted  in  tubs  and  placed  along  the  ter- 
race hung  lifeless  and  sapless.  All  the  summer 
they  had  been  pink  and  scarlet,  and  she  regretted 
that  no  one  during  her  illness  had  thought  to  take 
them  into  the  potting-shed.  "  If  Sister  Mary  John 
had  been  here  this  would  not  have  happened,"  she 
said  to  herself,  smiling  plaintively. 

And  it  was  in  this  dying  season  that  Evelyn 
began  to  regain  her  health.  Eor  the  last  fortnight 
she  had  been  very  happy.  She  had  enjoyed  the  ex- 
quisite happiness  of  returning  strength,  of  feeling 
herself  able  to  walk  a  little  further  each  day,  of 
being  able  to  do  a  little  more;  and  her  weakness 
saved  her  from  thinking.  A  convalescent  does  not 
think;  she  yields  herself  to  the  sweet  pressure  of 
returning  life,   and  it  was  not  until  the  end  of 


SISTER    TERESA  365 

October,  as  she  ^topped  in  her  walk  to  pity  the  neg- 
lected garden,  as  she  stooped  to  free  a  tuft  of  pinks 
from  some  trailing  nasturtium,  that  she  suddenly 
remembered  that  she  would  never  see  the  spring 
return  to  this  garden  again.  She  looked  round  for 
a  stick  to  prop  up  some  of  the  chrysanthemums, 
and  she  saw  their  graveyard  with  its  nine  crosses, 
realised  that  if  she  were  lying  there  her  difficulty 
and  the  convent  difficulty  would  be  at  an  end.  And 
as  her  strength  returned  the  difficulty  would  grow 
more  and  more  acute.  Neither  the  danger  she  had 
escaped  from  nor  her  long  convalescence  had  helped 
her  to  regain  her  faith.  Her  position  regarding 
the  dogma  of  transubstantiation  was  unchanged. 
When  the  priest  raised  the  Host  she  believed  that 
that  was  the  divine  flesh,  that  the  wine  in  the 
chalice  was  the  divine  blood,  that  a  change  had 
come  into  the  elements  themselves  in  the  words  of 
consecration;  but  now,  standing  in  the  middle  of 
the  garden,  face  to  face  with  nature,  she  could  not 
believe  that  the  Host  she  had  seen  that  morning  was 
the  divine  flesh  of  him  who  created  all  things,  she 
did  not  believe  with  that  intense  conviction  with 
which  she — a  nun,  a  Passionist  Sister — should  be- 
lieve. It  was  very  likely  that  many  Catholics  did 
not  get  nearer  to  a  sensible  belief  in  the  dogma 
than  she  did,  but  they  were  not  nuns  vowed  to  a 
perpetual  adoration  of  the  Host.  It  was  terribly 
sad  that  she  no  longer  believed  as  she  once  believed ; 
it  was  sad  because  she  had  sacrificed  so  much  for 


356  SISTER    TERESA 

this  belief,  and  now  when  every  sacrifice  had  been 
made  she  did  not  believe,  or  she  did  not  believe 
enough,  and  her  sacrifice  was  a  vain  one.  Xo,  not 
a  vain  one  .  .  .  even  if  she  had  to  leave  the  con- 
vent. True  that  the  difficulty  lay  still  unsolved 
before  her,  and  she  almost  wished  that  she  had 
died,  for  it  seemed  to  her  that  nothing  but  death 
could  solve  such  a  difficulty  as  hers  and  theirs. 

As  she  watched  the  passing  of  the  season  she 
noticed  that  the  nuns  avoided  her,  that  they  looked 
at  her  askance,  that  they  seemed  frightened  of  her. 
She  sighed,  for  the  thought  passed  that  there  w^as 
good  reason  for  their  fear  of  her,  for  here  she  was 
an  unbeliever — an  unbeliever  in  a  community 
vowed  to  perpetual  adoration  of  the  Host.  She 
knew  that,  from  the  point  of  view  of  the  nuns, 
nothing  more  awful  could  happen  to  them.  In 
their  hearts  they  must  think  of  her  as  some  chas- 
tisement sent  by  God.  They  could  hardly  think 
that;  God  would  not  chastise  them  in  such  a  way. 
His  way  would  be  a  different  way;  this  was  the 
devil's  way.  She  could  not  imagine  how  they 
thought. 

But  she  knew  that  the  Prioress's  illness  had  been 
attributed  to  her.  The  nuns  could  not  but  think 
that  the  fear  of  the  scandal  which  Evelyn's  de- 
parture would  bring  upon  the  convent  had  brought 
the  Prioress  to  death's  door.  Xo  one  had  told  her 
so,  but  she  guessed  that  the  community  was  of  one 
mind — or  nearly  so — on  this  point.      She  had  no 


SISTER   TERESA  Z$7 

friends  in  the  convent  now  except  Mother  Hilda 
and  Veronica,  and  Veronica  had  let  something  slip 
the  other  day ;  and  Evelyn  pondered  as  she  walked 
to  and  fro,  seeing  last  night's  rain  dripping  from 
the  last  leaves — it  collected  at  the  very  end  of  the 
leaf  and  the  great  drop  fell.  Leaves  were  being 
blown  about,  there  were  little  pools  of  water  wher- 
ever there  was  a  slight  hollow  in  the  path,  and  the 
nuns  were  throwing  a  ball  from  one  to  another 
with  little  joyous  cries.  Evelyn  kept  as  much  out 
of  their  sight  as  possible,  fearing  to  jar  their  amuse- 
ment. She  wondered  if  they  had  forgotten  their 
obligation  to  her,  and  she  remembered  that  had  it 
not  been  for  her  singing,  their  beautiful  garden 
would  have  been  taken  away  from  them  a  long 
while  ago,  and  villa  residences  would  have  over- 
looked the  Common.  She  walked  round  the  fish- 
pond in  the  little  plantation  at  the  end  of  St. 
Peter's  Walk,  and,  listening  to  the  trickling  of 
the  autumn  water,  she  said, — 

"  'No,  they  have  not  forgotten  their  obligation 
to  me;   they  resent  it." 

A  few  days  after  this  idea  received  an  unex- 
pected confirmation.  Sister  Veronica  told  her  that 
Sister  Winifred  had  said  that  if  the  Prioress  and 
Mother  Hilda  would  only  consent  to  a  relaxation 
of  the  rule  of  the  Order,  they  could  make  enough 
money  out  of  a  school  to  pay  Evelyn  the  eight 
thousand  pounds  which  she  had  brought  to  the 
convent. 


358  SISTER    TERESA 

"  Then  they  want  to  get  rid  of  me." 

"  No,  I  don't  think  they  want  to  get  rid  of  jou. 
I  shouldn't  put  it  exactly  that  way.  It  is  you, 
Sister,  who  want  to  leave,  and  of  course  we  should 
not  like  to  keep  the  money  you  gave  us." 

The  garden  was  full  of  nuns.  Some  were  walk- 
ing quickly,  for  though  the  sun  was  shining  the  air 
was  chill.  Others  had  begun  a  game  of  ball ;  Eve- 
lyn thought  she  would  like  to  join  in  it,  but  she  was 
afraid  they  would  not  care  to  play  with  her,  and 
it  was  at  that  moment  that  the  aged  Prioress  came 
up  to  speak  to  her. 

"  I  do  not  know  if  you  are  strong  enough  to  give 
me  your  arm,"  she  said. 

"  Oh,  yes,  dear  Mother,  I  am  quite  strong  now." 

"  Your  strength  has  returned,  Teresa,  but  mine 
will  not  return.  I  shall  barely  see  another  year. 
Oh,  I  know  it,"  she  added,  seeing  that  Evelyn  was 
about  to  contradict  her. 

Evelyn  did  not  dare  to  speak,  for  she  suddenly 
remembered  that  the  belief  of  the  convent  was  that 
slie  had  hastened  the  Prioress's  end.  On  account 
of  the  old  woman  she  had  to  walk  very  slowly. 
The  Prioress  was  now  hardly  more  than  a  little 
handful,  and  her  strength  was  a  dying  bird's.  They 
had  not  taken  many  steps  before  they  had  to  sit 
down,  and  something  told  Evelyn  that  the  moment 
had  come  for  her  to  speak  to  the  Prioress  about  her 
departure.  But  she  had  only  to  look  at  the  old 
woman  to  see  that  it  was  impossible  to  mention 


SISTER    TERESA  359 

such  a  subject  to  her.  Life  seemed  to  flutter  as 
fitfully  in  her  as  in  any  of  the  leaves  dancing  on 
the  stems.  A  leaf  had  just  fallen  at  Evelyn's  feet, 
another  was  dancing  merrily  and  might  hold  on  a 
long  while,  so  it  was  with  the  Prioress — she  might 
live  far  into  the  winter.  She  had  come  to  speak  to 
her,  and  Evelyn  waited  for  her  to  speak,  trembling 
with  anticipation. 

The  Prioress  said  not  a  word,  and  Evelyn  heard 
the  childish  laughter  of  the  nuns  and  the  wind 
thrilled  through  her  habit. 

At  last  the  silence  became  too  acute,  and  she 
said, — 

"  Mother,  I  have  escaped  from  death  as  by  a 
miracle,  but  it  would  have  been  better,  if  I  had 
died,  for  myself  and  for  you.  Think,  I  might  be 
sleeping  yonder,  under  the  white  crosses." 

"  If  you  did  not  die,  my  dear  child,  it  was  be- 
cause God  did  not  will  it.  Doubtless  He  did  not 
think  you  prepared  for  death,  and  He  resolved  to 
leave  you  a  little  longer.  God  is  very  good,  and  He 
is  merciful  to  those  who  have  loved  Him.'' 

"  But,  Mother,  I  have  never  ceased  to  love 
God." 

"  We  do  not  judge  you,  my  dear  daughter ;  we 
all  pray  for  you.  We  pray  for  you,  and  we  feel 
that  our  prayers  will  be  granted." 

"  It  is  not  well  for  you,  Mother,  to  sit  in  this 
cold  wind.    Had  you  not  better  walk  a  little  way  ?" 

"  I  am  rested  now." 


360  SISTER    TERESA 

And  as  they  walked  towards  the  terrace,  Evelyn 
said, — 

*^  I  have  caused  you  pain  and  suffering.  Maybe 
it  is  I  who  am  killing  you,  Mother.  My  life  seems 
to  have  been  all  suffering.  I  have  desired  to  do 
right ;  it  seems  that  I  have  failed  even  here.  The 
others  cannot  understand,  but  you  can,  you  do  un- 
derstand. Mother." 

"  I  am  older  than  the  others,  I  am  very  old,  and 
in  old  age  it  is  the  mind  that  sees.  We  are  pray- 
ing for  you,  my  dear  child,  for  we  know  by  instinct 
when  a  member  of  our  community  is  in  danger." 

She  spoke  out  of  the  mystery  of  age  and  out  of 
her  long  convictions,  and  then  Evelyn  knew  that 
she  could  not  leave  the  convent  as  long  as  this  old 
woman  lived.  When  she  died  the  closest  tie  which 
held  her  to  the  convent  would  be  broken,  and  she 
resolved  to  escape  as  soon  as  she  could  after  the 
Prioress's  death.  She  had  considered  the  various 
ways  of  escape  that  were  open  to  her,  for  she  could 
not  face  the  will  of  the  convent  again;  her  escape 
must  be  clandestine.  And  the  way  of  escape  that 
seemed  most  feasible  was  through  the  front  door 
when  the  portress  left  her  keys  on  the  nail. 

The  journey  to  London  in  her  habit  would  be 
disagreeable  and  difficult.  It  would  be  difficult 
because  she  had  no  money;  nuns  have  no  money. 
She  might  have  to  walk  all  the  way,  and  when  she 
got  to  London  she  did  not  know  where  she  woultl 
go  nor  how  she  could  get  any  money.      She  re- 


SISTER    TERESA  361 

membered  Owen  and  she  remembered  Ulick,  but 
she  would  go  to  neither,  and  she  imagined  herself 
knocking  at  Louise's  door.  She  thought  of  herself 
standing  in  Louise's  drawing-room  in  her  habit, 
but  she  did  not  smile. 

She  looked  at  the  Prioress,  and  the  conviction 
awakened  in  her  that  she  would  not  have  to  wait 
long,  and  then  she  thought  of  herself,  and  she  asked 
herself  if  she  possessed  sufficient  courage  to  begin 
life  afresh. 


XXXIX 

The  autumn  passed  into  an  early  winter,  and 
Evelyn  caught  a  cold  which  clung  to  her,  and  it 
prevented  her  from  singing  at  Benediction.  It 
seemed  to  her  that  the  nuns  were  glad  that  she 
could  not  sing,  but  the  Prioress  said  that  she  missed 
her  singing,  and  it  seemed  to  her  sad  that  the 
Prioress  should  not  hear  her;  very  soon  the  Prior- 
ess would  hear  no  more  music,  and  Evelyn  sang  in 
spite  of  her  ailing  throat. 

One  day  she  found  she  had  no  voice  left.  A  spe- 
cialist came  from  London  to  examine  her  throat; 
he  said  that  she  had  been  very  imprudent,  he  pre- 
scribed, and  said  that  perhaps  with  a  couple  of 
years^  rest  she  might  be  able  to  sing  again.  But 
Evelyn  did  not  believe  him;  she  knew  that  her 
voice  had  gone  from  her  as  her  mother's  had  gone ; 
her  voice  had  left  her  in  the  very  middle  of  a  piece 
of  music,  and  in  the  middle  of  an  opera  her  mother 
had  lost  her  voice. 

And  now  that  the  irreparable  had  happened  the 

nuns  were  sorry  for  her,   in  a  way,   though  she 

doubted  if  any  one  of  them,  except  perhaps  the 

Prioress,  Mother  Hilda,  and  Veronica,  would  give 

her  back  her  voice  if  it  were  in  their  power  to 

give  it. 
362 


SISTER    TERESA  863 

Her  plan  had  been  to  leave  the  convent  soon  after 
the  Prioress's  death.  She  had  intended  to  sing  in 
concerts  and  oratorios,  and  to  live  as  economically 
as  possible,  and  it  would  not  be  difficult  for  her  to 
live  economically  after  her  experiences  in  the  con- 
vent. Her  expenses  would  consist  principally  of 
a  few  dresses,  her  rooms  would  cost  her  about  fifteen 
shillings  a  week,  and  with  one  little  serving-maid 
she  would  be  able  to  limit  her  expenditure  to  two 
hundred  pounds  a  year,  and  her  calculation  was 
that  she  might  earn  twelve  hundred  a  year.  So 
she  would  be  putting  by  every  year  one  thousand 
pounds  and  when  she  had  saved  seven  or  eight  thou- 
sand pounds  she  looked  forward  to  buying  the  cot- 
tage and  the  large  garden,  the  home  for  the  six  little 
crippled  boys  that  she  had  written  to  Monsignor 
about.  She  had  looked  forward  to  this  as  the  end 
of  her  life;  it  was  to  be  the  inevitable  packing 
up  that  comes  to  us  all  sooner  or  later,  the  final 
arrangement.  She  had  believed  that  all  thi^  would 
happen,  for  it  seemed  so  natural,  so  like  what  would 
happen,  given  the  circumstances  of  her  life.  It 
had  never  seemed  quite  natural  to  her  that  her  life 
should  end  in  this  convent  amid  these  very  good  but 
very  childish  nuns.  The  loss  of  her  voice  had  de- 
stroyed all  hope  of  this  little  dream  of  hers;  the 
dream  had  seemed  very  real  while  it  lasted,  but  a 
simple  accident,  a  month's  singing  with  an  ailing 
throat,  had  made  it  as  impossible  as  any  dream 
of  fairyland.     If  she  were  to  leave  the  convent, 


364  SISTER    TERESA 

and  she  certainly  would  have  to  leave  it,  the  end 
would  be  quite  different;  the  onlj  end  she  could 
see  for  herself  now  was  to  be  a  singing  mistress, 
a  music  teacher.  She  could  see  herself  living  in 
some  distant  suburb,  coming  up  to  town  third  class 
in  wet  months  and  cold  months,  and  giving  lessons 
for  a  few  shillings  an  hour.  Her  stage  careeer  had 
been  forgotten;  she  had  not  been  long  enough  on 
the  stage  to  be  remembered.  Three  or  four  shil- 
lings an  hour  was  the  highest  remuneration  she 
could  expect.  Maybe  she  could  succeed  in  making 
three  hundred  pounds  a  year;  if  she  did  that  she 
would  be  very  lucky,  for  then  she  would  have  a 
margin  which  she  could  apply  to  some  charitable 
purpose,  to  some  less  expensive  charity  than  the 
home  for  the  little  children.  Well,  she  must  be 
content  with  that. 

At  that  moment  the  Prioress  called  her.  The 
old  woman  had  awakened  suddenly,  and  not  hear- 
ing the  sound  of  her  pen  had  asked  her  what  she 
was  doing.  Evelyn  excused  herself.  For  some 
months  she  had  been  acting  as  the  Prioress's  sec- 
retary— they  were  writing  together  the  history  of 
the  convent — but  the  Prioress's  memory  was  fail- 
ing; she  could  not  answer  Evelyn's  questions,  and 
Evelyn  had  to  get  up  to  search  for  some  documents. 

As  she  looked  for  the  documents  she  suddenly 
remembered  Owen  Asher;  they  would  be  sure  to 
meet  sooner  or  later  if  she  left  the  convent.  The 
question  was.   How  would  they  meet?     For  the 


SISTER    TERESA  366 

moment  she  was  unable  to  find  any  answer  to  this 
question,  but  gradually  the  thought  came  that  they 
would  meet  almost  ^s  strangers,  and  this  thought 
gradually  settled  into  profound  conviction.  For 
how  otherwise  could  they  meet  except  as  strangers  ? 
She  had  changed  beyond  his  powers  of  recognition. 
All  that  she  had  been  was  dead;  all  that  he  knew 
her  by  was  dead.  Men  do  not  wish  to  make  love 
to  nuns ;  a  nun  could  never  be  more  than  a  shadow. 
The  body  would  be  there,  but  there  would  be  a  look 
in  the  eyes  that  would  tell  of  leagues  immeasurable. 
She  could  easily  imagine  the  meeting.  He  would 
ask  from  her  an  account  of  herself;  she  would 
tell  him  of  the  convent.  He  would  try  to  be  kind, 
but  when  she  told  him  that  she  had  lost  her  voice, 
neither  would  know  what  to  say  next. 

Ulick  would  recognise  her  better,  for  they  had 
been  always  going  towards  the  same  end,  though 
by  different  roads,  and  she  wondered  what  progress 
he  had  made  in  the  spiritual  life.  He  stirred  her 
imagination  a  little,  but  she  was  able  to  overcome 
it,  and  she  knew  that  he  would  be  able  to  forego 
sensual  love  more  easily  even  than  she  would,  not- 
withstanding her  five  years  in  the  convent,  notwith- 
standing her  vows.  He  would  want  her  to  marry 
him,  and  she  shrank  from  the  thought,  remembering 
that  she  was  the  bride  of  Christ.  But  she  would 
always  be  interested  in  his  ideas,  and  she  regretted 
her  voice  for  his  sake ;  perhaps  enough  voice  would 
come  back  to  her  to  sing  to  him  in  the  evenings. 


366  SISTEK    TEEESA 

She  wondered  what  music  he  had  written,  if  he 
had  finished  "  Grania."  How  far  away  all  these 
things  seemed  now! 

It  was  the  wish  of  the  old  woman  who  lay  dying 
in  her  chair  that  the  history  they  were  writing 
should  he  finished  before  she  died.  Her  eyes  were 
strangely  dim,  and  her  flesh  was  grey.  She  looked 
like  a  night  light  burning  low  in  the  socket.  But 
her  mind  was  clear,  though  the  flame  flickered  on 
the  edge  of  darkness,  and  Evelyn  often  grew  afraid 
that  the  old  nun  divined  her  intention  of  leaving 
the  convent  The  dim  eyes  seemed  to  see  through 
her;  they  seemed  to  see  into  the  very  background 
of  her  mind.  As  death  approaches  the  mind  sees ; 
and  Evelyn  trembled.  But  the  Prioress  asked  no 
questions.  She  seemed  to  Evelyn  to  acquiesce  in 
her  departure.  She  seemed  to  have  no  more  fear 
for  Evelyn's  soul  than  for  her  own,  and  this  was  a 
great  consolation  to  Evelyn. 

^Nevertheless,  there  were  times  when  Evelyn's 
conscience  nearly  overpowered  her,  and  she  longed 
to  throw  herself  at  the  Prioress's  feet  and  beg  her 
forgiveness,  pledging  herself  to  stay  in  the  convent, 
and  she  felt  that  if  that  pledge  were  given  she 
would  keep  it.  Her  knees  dwindled  under  her, 
and  her  lips  were  about  to  speak;  but  at  that  mo- 
ment, as  if  divining  her  intention,  the  Prioress 
asked  her  to  stir  the  fire,  for  she  was  getting  cold. 
And  as  she  made  up  the  fire  Evelyn  gave  thanks 
that  she  had  not  spoken,  for  such  a  confession  would 


SISTER    TERESA  867 

surely  have  embittered  the  Prioress's  end,  and  Eve- 
lyn knew  that  the  end  was  assuaged  and  made  happy 
by  her  presence.  She  knew  the  Prioress  loved  her, 
and  she  knew  that  she  loved  the  Prioress  with  the 
same  kind  of  passionate  ^ove  with  which  she  had 
worshipped  her  father. 


XL 

When  the  Prioress  died  Evelyn's  life  seemed  a 
figment,  and  life,  whether  she  remained  in  the  con- 
vent or  left  it,  seemed  to  her  to  be  equally  unbear- 
able. The  anguish  was  heightened  in  her  by  the 
rites,  by  the  black  cloths,  by  the  chants,  and  by  the 
unconsciousness  of  nature.  A  keen  wind  was  blow- 
ing, and  the  sky  brightened  at  intervals  as  the  pro- 
cession moved  through  the  gardens.  The  bare  trees 
were  shaken,  and  she  desired  to  wave  innocently 
in  the  air  as  they  did,  to  mingle  with  the  beautiful, 
peaceful  earth;  the  earth  seemed  the  only  peaceful 
thing,  and  she  longed  to  join  it  and  to  partake 
once  again  of  its  dark  and  happy  life. 

In  losing  the  Prioress  she  had  lost  everything,  the 
athers  had  only  lost  a  Prioress,  who  would  be  re- 
placed by  another  Prioress,  and  a  new  conviction 
of  her  loneliness  awoke  in  her  when  she  knelt  by 
the  newly-made  grave.  She  remembered  Sister 
Mary  John,  whom  she  would  never  see  again.  Even 
God  seemed  to  have  deserted  her,  yet  she  had  made 
many  sacrifices  for  Him. 

When  she  announced  that  she  would  not  vote  for 
the  new  Prioress  the  nuns  viewed  her  still  more 
coldly.  They  asked  her  if  she  thought  that  none 
among  them  was  worthy  to  fill  the  place  of  the  late 

368 


SISTER    TERESA  369 

Prioress.  Or  did  she  feel  no  further  interest  in 
the  welfare  of  the  convent.  Evelyn  answered  that 
the  choice  of  the  new  Prioress  would  probably  de- 
cide whether  the  rule  of  the  Order  should  be 
widened,  whether  they  should  cut  themselves  off 
from  the  Mother  House  in  France,  and  that  she 
would  like  to  avoid  the  responsibility  of  taking 
sides. 

"  But,'^  said  Sister  Winifred,  "  no  one  has  a  right 
to  shirk  her  responsibility;  that  is  why  we  elected 
you  a  choir  Sister." 

She  could  not  vote — on  that  point  her  resolution 
did  not  seem  to  admit  of  any  change;  the  nuns 
continued  to  press  her,  and  she  did  not  like  to 
remind  them  that  she  had  freed  the  convent  from 
debt,  in  order  that  it  might  remain  a  contemplative 
order.  As  she  hesitated,  Sister  Winifred  came  to 
her  rescue,  saying, — 

"  Sister  Teresa  has  no  doubt  very  good  reasons 
for  abstaining  from  voting!" 

Evelyn's  defection  left  little  doubt  in  Sister  Wini- 
fred's mind  that  Mother  Philippa  would  be  elected, 
and  in  that  case  the  new  buildings  would  be  finished 
before  a  year  was  out,  a  school  would  be  in  progress, 
and  before  ten  years  the  conversion  of  Wimbledon 
to  Rome  would  be  an  accomplished  fact.  The  few 
nuns  who  still  clung  to  the  ancient  tradition  of  the 
order  could  offer  no  serious  opposition  to  so  constant 
an  energy  as  Sister  Winifred's.  Mother  Philippa 
was  elected  Prioress,  and  at  the  end  of  the  month 


8Y0  SISTER    TERESA 

the  subject  of  conversation  during  the  morning  rec- 
reations was  the  possibility  of  obtaining  the 
Bishop's  consent  to  their  separating  themselves 
from  the  Mother  House  in  France  and  entering 
upon  scholastic  activity.  Monsignor,  who  had  just 
returned  to  England,  was  sent  for,  and  it  was  hoped 
he  would  use  his  very  great  influence  with  his  lord- 
ship. 

"  Where,  for  instance,"  the  Prioress  said  to  him, 
"could  parents  get  children  taught  as  they  could 
here?  But  I  am  very  sorry  to  say  that  Sister 
Teresa  lost  her  voice  this  winter;  we  miss  her 
voice  sadly  at  Benediction,  but  for  teaching  it  won't 
matter  in  the  least,  and  then  she  is  an  excellent 
pianist,  she  can  even  teach  composition."  Mon- 
signor sympathised  with  the  sublime  idea  that  a 
constant  stream  of  petitions  was  necessary  to  save 
this  world  from  the  wrath  of  God,  but  at  the  same 
time  it  did  not  seem  to  him  that  a  school  would 
seriously  infringe  upon  the  tradition  of  the  order. 
He  spoke  volubly  for  some  minutes,  partly  in  the 
hopes  of  distracting  Evelyn's  attention  from  the 
Reverend  Mother's  remarks  concerning  her,  which 
had  seemed  to  him  injudicious.  At  the  same  mo- 
ment Evelyn  was  thinking  how,  just  as  she  had 
finished  her  work,  it  had  undone  itself,  it  had  just 
crumbled  away,  and  she  saw  it  scattering  like  a 
little  heap  of  dust.  True,  it  was  that  she  was 
leaving  the  convent,  but  she  did  not  wish  the  idea 
abandoned — the  idea  that  she  had  striven  for;   she 


SISTEK    TEEESA  371 

wished  it  to  be  carried  on  by  others;  she  knew 
herself  to  be  weak,  she  knew  she  must  fall  out  of 
the  ranks,  but  her  belief  in  the  ideal  was  unim- 
paired. And  she  thought  of  these  things  as  she 
calculated  the  height  of  the  garden  walls,  as  she 
listened  to  Mother  Philippa  telling  Monsignor  the 
price  they  would  charge  for  boarders  and  for  non- 
boarders,  and  the  advantages  that  such  a  school 
would  offer  to  the  villa  residents.  But  before  she 
could  leave  the  convent  she  must  finish  the  Prioress's 
book.  Her  promise  to  the  Prioress  to  finish  her 
history  of  the  convent,  its  story  as  it  had  existed 
under  her  headship,  had  become  sacred  to  Evelyn, 
and  the  unfinished  manuscript  was  the  last  tie  that 
bound  her  to  the  convent.  She  had  hoped  to  finish 
it  in  six  weeks  or  a  month,  but  the  book  was  not 
yet  finished;  new  difficulties  arose,  and  the  old 
difficulties  seemed  insuperable,  and  this  manuscript 
which  she  worked  at  day  after  day  became  like  some 
redoubtable  secret  enemy.  "If  I  do  not  write  I 
shall  never  get  away  from  here,"  she  cried  to  her- 
self in  the  silent  cloisters,  and  raising  her  eyea 
from  the  paper  she  thought  of  herself  as  of  a  pris- 
oner scraping  her  way  through  an  unending  wall. 
She  went  about  her  avocations — a  quiet  nun, 
gentle,  almost  demure;  her  resolution  to  escape 
deep  in  her  heart,  and  the  nuns  began  to  think 
she  had  at  last  become  like  themselves.  Only  at 
recreation  did  she  try  to  avoid  the  rule.  If  it  were 
fine  the  nuns  sat  in  a  circle  in  the  shade  of  a 


372  SISTER    TERESA 

favourite  tree,  and  gossipped  about  little  external 
pieties — the  lighting  of  candles  and  the  repainting 
of  the  statuettes,  and  to  appear  interested  in  these 
conversations  had  always  been  the  greatest  of  Eve- 
lyn's conventual  difficulties,  and  now  it  seemed  more 
difficult  than  ever.  One  day  they  were  babbling  of 
the  advantage  it  would  be  to  them  if  some  of  their 
pupils  distinguished  themselves  in  painting  or  in 
music  when  they  left  the  convent.  Sister  Winifred 
cast  down  her  eyes  and  blushed,  and  Evelyn  felt 
they  could  talk  better  without  her.  She  availed 
herself  of  this  little  incident  to  steal  away. 

To  walk  by  herself  in  the  sun,  in  the  evening 
light,  thinking  of  the  dead  Prioress,  or  of  the  nun 
Avho  had  gone  away  because  she  could  not  endure 
her  love,  seemed  like  happiness,  and  she  felt  she 
could  be  happy  in  the  convent  if  her  friends  could 
be  given  back  to  her.  When  they  were  with  her 
the  convent  was  a  pure  aspiration,  meagre  and  a 
little  grey,  perhaps,  but  still  pure  and  true.  And 
while  thinking  of  the  grey  pieties  of  the  cloister 
her  eyes  turned  to  the  sun-setting.  The  sunset 
seemed  to  steal  into  her  heart,  and  to  become  a 
source  of  secret  joy  to  her.  She  wondered  what 
was  the  influence  of  the  sun;  it  made  the  woods 
grow  green  and  the  flowers  blossom,  it  drew  all 
things  into  itself,  the  rays  darted  from  the  horizon 
to  the  zenith,  and  she  stood  at  the  highest  point 
of  the  garden  watching  the  light,  breathless  and 
delighted.     She  saw  the  beautiful  earth  quiescent 


SISTER    TEKESA  373 

like  a  nun  watching  before  the  sacrament.  The 
plants  lifted  their  leaves  to  the  light.  Everything 
knew  it,  even  the  stones  in  the  centre  of  the  earth; 
she  watched  the  distant  woods  submerged  in  the 
light  of  the  sun;  her  soul  dilated  and  knew  its 
light ;  the  shell  broke  which  till  now  had  darkened 
it  from  her ;  her  flesh  and  spirit  seemed  to  become 
one  with  it;  her  immortal  spirit  seemed  to  as- 
cend into  the  immortal  light;  her  eyes  seemed  to 
see  into  the  depths  of  the  sea,  and  her  ears  were 
soothed  by  the  murmur  of  the  waves. 

The  great  secret  was  revealed;  she  understood 
the  mysterious  yearning  which  impels  us  in  turn 
to  reject  and  to  accept  life;  and  she  had  learnt 
these  things  merely  by  watching  the  flowers  raising 
their  leaves  to  the  light. 

She  sat  down  in  the  grass  and  watched  a  sun- 
flower till  it  seemed  a  sentient  being  whose  silent 
adoration  of  its  distant  shepherd  in  the  heavens 
w^as  turning  it  into  the  likeness  of  the  glory  it 
longed  to  reach.  She  closed  her  eyes  to  imagine  it 
better,  and  the  sun-flower  in  her  thoughts  grew^  and 
expanded,  and  went  upwards  to  the  brimming  love 
which  gave  it  life ;  and  the  imagined  ecstasy  of  the 
meeting  thrilled  her  heart,  and  she  remembered 
that  yesterday  the  elevation  of  the  Host  had  left 
her  unmoved.  Why  was  it  that  the  mere  sight  of 
a  flower  evoked  a  vanished  sweetness  which  no 
ritual  could  aw^aken  in  her?  And  in  another  mo- 
ment of  revelation  she  knew  that  to  seek  the  Real 


374  sist:Bk  tekesa 

Presence  on  the  altar  alone  is  a  denial  of  the  Di- 
vine Being  elsewhere,  and  she  felt  the  door  would 
be  closed  to  her  until  in  every  mood  and  in  every- 
place she  could  recognise  the  sacrament  as  an  eter- 
nal act  in  nature. 

She  was  wakeful  that  night,  but  in  the  darkness 
there  was  light,  and  she  felt  that  it  had  come  to 
lead  her  out  as  it  had  led  her  into  the  convent,  for 
there  are  not  two  lights,  but  one  light. 

Her  book  was  finished,  and  she  awaited  her  op- 
portunity— her  opportunity  was  the  accident  that 
Sister  Agnes  should  be  called  away  suddenly  and 
leave  her  keys  on  the  nail ;  and  the  little  porteress 
rarely  left  her  door,  and  when  she  did  her  keys 
were  at  her  girdle.  Winter  passed  into  spring  and 
Evelyn  still  waited,  and  she  sometimes  said  "  if 
the  opportunity  does  not  occur  soon  I  shall  not  have 
the  strength,"  and  she  asked  herself  if  she  would 
have  the  strength  to  begin  life  again.  The  weeks 
went  by,  and  one  day  in  April  the  porteress  passed 
her  in  the  passage,  the  keys  were  not  at  her  girdle, 
and  Evelyn  walked  down  the  Georgian  hall  and 
down  the  covered  way,  and  taking  the  keys  from 
the  nail  she  opened  the  door. 

At  that  moment  the  pigeons  left  their  roosts  and 
flew  towards  the  fields.  The  fields  were  shining  in 
the  morning  light ;  thrush  and  cuckoo  were  calling, 
the  spring  moved  among  the  first  primroses,  and 
Evelyn  stood  watching  the  spring-tide. 

She  had  only  to  take  a  step  to  regain  her  life  in 


SISTER    TERESA  375 

the  world,  but  she  could  not  take  that  step.  She 
no  longer  even  seemed  to  desire  it.  In  the  long 
months  she  had  been  kept  waiting  a  change  had 
taken  place  in  her.  She  felt  that  something  had 
broken  in  her,  and  she  closed  the  door,  and  having 
locked  it  she  hung  the  keys  on  the  nail. 

And  walking  up  the  covered  way  dimly  aware 
that  she  was  walking,  she  remembered  that  she 
would  soon  come  to  the  end  of  the  covered  way, 
and  would  meet  Sister  Agnes  returning  to  her  post. 
And  then  she  remembered  that  she  had  left  some- 
thing undone  in  the  sacristy,  and  she  returned  there 
quickly  and  began  to  arrange  some  flowers  for  the 
Virgin's  altar. 


XLI 

In  the  middle  of  the  following  year  Mademoi- 
selle Heilbron  called  to  see  her,  and  Teresa  came 
into  the  parlour,  and  with  ready  smiles  and  simple 
glee  she  entered  into  conversation  with  her  old 
friend. 

"  But  may  we  not  go  into  the  garden  ?" 

"  But,  of  course,  certainly.'^ 

A  little  embarrassed  to  know  what  to  say  to  her, 
Louise  talked  to  her  about  a  new  part  in  a  new 
opera  by  a  new  composer. 

"  I've  brought  the  score  with  me.  Would  you 
like  to  see  it  ?    Shall  I  leave  it  ?" 

Teresa  said  that  once  she  would  have  liked  to 
see  it,  but  now  such  things  were  far  behind  her, 
and  with  a  merry  laugh  she  spoke  of  herself  as  a 
broken  spirit.  And  then,  as  if  speaking  out  of 
some  vague  association  of  ideas,  she  spoke  of  her 
pupils — of  one  who  really  had  an  aptitude  for  the 
piano,  and  another  who  could  really  sing  a  little. 
She  would  like  Louise  to  hear  her,  and  Louise  was 
not  certain  if  she  were  speaking  in  bitterness  or  in 
jest,  or  if  her  present  mind  was  her  natural  mind. 

They  walked  a  little  way  in  silence,  and  then 
Louise  said, — 

"  And  you  are  quite  happy  noAv  that  you  have 
376 


SISTEK    TERESA  377 

put  life  aside,  now  that  you  have  decided  that  there 
is  nothing  better  for  you  to  do  in  life  than  to  teach 
the  piano  and  solfege  ?" 

"  Dear  Louise,  all  things  are  of  equal  impor- 
tance; it  matters  nothing  whether  we  are  teach- 
ing little  children  or  doing  the  things  that  the  world 
thinks  glorious.  The  important  thing  to  do  is  to 
live,  and  we  do  not  begin  to  know  life,  to  taste  life, 
until  we  put  it  aside.  This  sounds  like  a  paradox, 
but  it  is  a  simple  little  truth.  Life  is  the  will  of 
God,  and  to  enter  into  the  will  of  God  we  must 
forget  ourselves,  we  must  try  to  live  outside  our- 
selves in  the  general  life." 

"  But  what  is  the  will  of  God?" 

"  What  is  your  own  breath,  Louise  ?  You  can- 
not explain  it,  and  yet  it  is  yourself.  And  there 
are  times  when  the  will  of  God  seems  as  near  to 
us  as  our  own  breath." 

"  I  think  I  know  what  you  mean,  but  if  I  were 
to  live  here  I  should  kill  myself." 

"  When  I  was  on  the  stage  I  often  used  to  think 
of  killing  myself.  I  did  not  fear  death  at  all,  for 
life  seemed  so  trivial,  but  now  I  do  not  want  to  die, 
I  should  like  to  live  on  and  on.  So  long  as  we  live 
in  the  will  of  God,  it  does  not  seem  to  matter  where 
we  live,  whether  we  live  in  this  world  or  in  heaven." 

They  walked  round  the  garden  twice,  carrying 
on  the  conversation  as  best  they  could.  Louise  re- 
marked a  nun  reading  her  office,  and  Teresa  told 
her  who  she  was.     Louise  affected  an  interest  in 


378  SISTEK   TEKESA 

the  flowers,  and  Teresa  told  Louise  she  must  hear 
her  favorite  pupil. 

"  I  really  don't  think  you  will  be  disappointed, 
she  has  got  a  very  pretty  voice,  and  I  have  just 
taught  her  a  song  out  of  one  of  HandeFs  operas." 

"  I  remember  a  song  of  HandeFs  that  you  used 
to  sing  beautifully.     Do  you  ever  sing  it  now  ?" 

"  IN'o ;  I  lost  my  voice  last  winter ;  a  heavy  cold 
took  it  all  away,"  and  Teresa  laughed  just  as  she 
had  laughed  when  she  spoke  of  herself  as  a  broken 
spirit,  and  Louise  left  the  convent  uncertain,  think- 
ing that  perhaps  it  was  this  loss  of  her  voice  that 
had  decided  her  to  remain  in  the  convent. 

"  So  this  is  the  last  stage,"  she  said  as  she  drove 
back  to  London.  And  then  Louise  thought  of  her 
own  life.  She  was  now  forty-five,  she  might  go  on 
singing  for  a  few  years — then  she,  too,  would  have 
to  begin  her  packing  up,  and  she  wondered  what 
her  end  would  be. 


THE   END 


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